


Forget Me Not

by Batsymomma11



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Best Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Human Experimentation, Lex Luthor is Evil, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Recovery, Starvation, Torture, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-07-17 17:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 75,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16100666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: "This is Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. Philanthropist. Thirty-nine years of age.This is Batman.Martial artist, linguist, aerialist, JLA strategist.My eyes jump to the quivering form, to the bowed shoulders that are marked with dried blood and sweat. To the raw and infected skin on his wrists and ankles. And then to the greasy top of his head where the hair looks as dull as the waxen white skin beneath it.This was Batman.The sight is—heartbreaking."Bruce Wayne goes missing for nearly a year. The JLA finds him but by the time they do, he's merely a shell of what he once was. His mind is lost.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING--I always warn for this sort of stuff in my work. There are vague references to rape and then to recovering from rape. They may or may not become more graphic as I go along, but most likely not. I will always warn at the head of a chapter. There is also torture and violence that could be disturbing and/or triggering. So beware. 
> 
> I do not own DC or its characters. This story is not canon and though I didn't place it in an alternate universe, there might be some elements which don't jive with the comics. I do own the story.

**Clark**

 

                He’s watching me like a child who’s had a favorite toy stolen from them. Eyes wide and quicksilver blue, skin pale and thin, hands reaching helplessly out from his diminished frame with open abandon.

                “Please, don’t take that.”

                I grip the ragged shred of red fabric in both hands, fighting the urge to gag from the smell alone. “It’s filthy and torn.”

                “Don’t take it,” his voice has dropped to a pleading whisper and he’s crawled nearer, clearly feeling as though he’s taking a big risk in doing so. He trembles from head to toe, still reaching with what were once elegant and strong hands, “Please. Please it’s mine.”

                I stare down at him, at the too bony of shoulders and the dark matted hair and feel my mouth tugging into a scowl before I can school the emotion. Something is clawing up my throat, threatening to steal my breath and the only thing I can think of is; grief. Terrible, searing grief. If I’m not careful, the tears I’m keeping in check, will choke me.

                “It needs to be cleaned.”

                “No,” the man cries, “don’t clean it! You’ll ruin it. Please!”

                I frown at him, heart pressing hard into my ribs and breastbone, pain lancing down my middle. Bruce has never begged me. He’s never begged anyone, as far as I know. But this creature, this haggard animal—he’s hardly even human anymore. What did Lex do to make him like this? What horrors must he have seen to have him cower in fear like this? Nausea roils in my stomach as answers and images neatly fill my mind to the brim.

                I don’t want to know.

                I _have_ to know.

                “It needs to be cleaned,” I offer the words carefully, squatting to level my gaze with the man, “And so do you. I’m going to help you.”

                Alarm shatters the pleas and Bruce scrambles back from me, hitting his head on the wall of the prison cell as he does, cowering beneath both arms which fold precisely over the top of his head. He curls into himself so tightly he could easily be mistaken for an adolescent boy. Though that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

              This is Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. Philanthropist. Thirty-nine years of age. 

              This is Batman.

              Martial artist, linguist, aerialist, JLA strategist.

              My eyes jump to the quivering form, to the bowed shoulders that are marked with dried blood and sweat. To the raw and infected skin on his wrists and ankles. And then to the greasy top of his head where the hair looks as dull as the waxen white skin beneath it. 

              This _was_ Batman.

              The sight is—heartbreaking.

              More difficult to stomach than anything I imagined would be these last ten months of searching. It hurts even more than the fact that he clearly doesn’t remember me. That he’s as docile and weak as a naked child and his mind has clearly been wounded deeply. His body, nearly just as much. He doesn’t resemble the Dark Knight in any way, shape, or form.

               I should have come faster. I should have found him quicker. God, he could have died before I found him.

              “I won’t hurt you.”

               A soft whimper of denial shimmers between us and I risk grazing my fingers over a forearm, trying to beckon him out of the shell. He sucks in a breath and shrinks in further, like a pill bug being spotted in a garden.

                I don’t want to force him. I don’t want this to be any harder than its already going to be. But we’re pressed for time and I’ve already taken up a great deal of it trying to bargain with him. Trying to coax him out the open cell door.

                “ _Superman, evac in six minutes.”_

“Understood,” I answer softly, tapping the earpiece in my ear to confirm. The bombs are set to go off in eight minutes. Then this lab will be nothing but a sooty memory in the Himalayas.

                “Bruce,” I whisper his name, even knowing he doesn’t remember who he is. He doesn’t remember who anyone is. There is no room in his mind for anything but what has been dealt him. He’s lost himself inside. “I won’t hurt you. I’ll take care of you. Get you clean, give you food. Let you sleep. You can keep your—” I look down at the red scrap, then offer it out to him again, “your blanket. We can wash it at the same time we do you. I won’t take it again.”

                This earns me a look slanted between his forearms and I smile weakly at him. We stare at each for so long that I very nearly break the stalemate and simply grab him. Nearly.

                Bruce shifts when I offer my hand, wiggling the scrap of red in it, and finally, thank God, he takes it. I’ve never been more grateful for such a small battle won. I don’t force him to walk quickly when we leave the room, though without the confines of the cell, I can feel the urgency rise like war drums in my ears to move faster. We need to leave. 

                “Move as quick as you can,” I warn, tightening my grip on the frail wrist as I pick up my pace and Bruce struggles to keep up. It would be faster and safer if I simply picked him up and flew. But that would mean possibly breaking his trust. And that is tenuous at best.

                When we climb the last set of the stairs to get to ground level, the light is blinding and I feel Bruce stumble at my back, his legs giving out entirely.

                He hisses, dropping my hand to quickly cover his face.

                “It’s just the sun, Bruce.”

                Gray eyes squint up at me, “Hurts.”

                “You’ve been in the dark for a long time. But this won’t hurt you. The sun is good for you.”           

                He doesn’t look like he believes me, but I don’t have time to convince him.

                “Can I carry you?”

                Bruce cringes back from me, even with the aid of that ratty red scrap in my hand.

                “I can go quickly. I can get us to safety faster.”

                “No—No, I don’t want you to touch me. Please, don’t touch me,” Bruce starts mumbling incoherently, eyes squeezed shut and sits down hard onto the wind bitten grass. I don’t have a choice. We have to leave.

                Sighing, I hook my arms under his legs and ignore the sudden tremulous cry he gives me. He doesn’t start fighting in earnest until I’ve got him plastered to my chest and I’m lifting off. He’s no match for my strength, but still, the fight he puts up makes my insides turn to poison and I feel violence shimmering in my vision.

                I want to punish someone for this.

                I want Luthor to pay. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. I want him reduced to the same quivering bundle of filth and then left to rot until he starves in a pit like the one I’d just clawed Bruce out of.

                “You’re Ok,” I offer, clutching Bruce tight enough to leave bruises so he won’t fall to his death. He’s wailing now, clawing at my arms, eyes wild and filled with tears. Vomit claws at the back of my throat and I have to will it to stay down. “I won’t hurt you. I’m taking you somewhere safe. You won’t be hurt.”

                “You’re lying!”

                “No, I’m not.”

                How many times have they lied to him? How many ways have they hurt him? He’s so light, so thin in my grip I can feel his ribs digging into my hip. I can feel each ragged breath moving through the bony ridges of his spine.

                “Please, I’ll be good. I won’t cry anymore. Please, take me back. I won’t fight it. I won’t hurt anyone again. I promise.”

                “Bruce,” I choke the word out, feeling those tears from before perilously close to erupting, “That place was bad. I took you from there because it wasn’t safe. You’ll be safe now. I won’t hurt you. I’m taking you somewhere warm and dry. Somewhere we can clean you. And feed you.”

                Bruce doesn’t quiet until we’re a mile from the JLA headquarters in Metropolis. I slow my speed, drifting in the now dark skies until I spot the back entrance reserved for members. The moment I step within the cloaking barrier, we disappear and the knots in my shoulders loosen.

                We made it without incident.

                We did it.

                “Bruce?” I ask, shifting my grip on the man so I can make out his face in the dim lighting of the corridors. He’s breathing shallow and fast, but his eyes are closed. He fell asleep. I shake my head, striding purposefully in the direction of the med-bay. There’s a shower and tub across the hall and I can clean him up there. Without washing some of the blood and the dirt away, I can’t see the extent of the damages. I’ll need J’onn to do a full workup and start treatment immediately.

                The minute I set him down on the hard tile to turn the water on, he jolts awake.

                “I’m just going to get you clean.”

                “No,” Bruce rasps, voice lower and thinner than before, whispery soft. “Please. No.”

                I shake my head, remorse and guilt making my hands shake as I reach to adjust the temperature. The showerhead is detachable, so if he sits underneath the spray, we can get the worst of it off here. But I’ll need to cut his hair. It’s so matted, there won’t be any saving it. His beard too. I’m certain there are creatures living in both. But I imagine I’ll need help to hold him down for that.

                I don’t relish the idea.

                “Just washing.”

                Bruce’s eyes flicker up my frame and he quivers, his eyes skating over me in an old nod to himself. Assessing. Calculating. Then the lost frightened boy is back and he starts crying. Big fat tears track down his face silently and he remains limp as I carefully cut away the clothes he’s wearing.

                Beneath the clothing, the evidence of his imprisonment is almost too much to bear.

                It’s clear he was beaten. Many, many times. But there is more beneath the crisscross of scarring and caked blood. There are bite marks. There are bruised handprints on his hips and the back of his neck. As I move to peel off his soiled pants, he grabs my wrists and cries harder.

                “Not again. I can’t do it again.”

                I stare at him, my heart slamming so hard in my ears I can hardly hear him speaking. There is a part of my mind that understands what he’s saying. That knows why he is so scared. Why he’s quietly breaking apart into a thousand pieces like this over being stripped for a bath. But the other part, the one that doesn’t want to believe it or deal with it, staunchly fights the idea.

                He doesn’t look like it right now, but this is Batman. This is Bruce.

                The strongest man I know. The man who always has a plan and always escapes no matter how tight or difficult the bindings.

                I push past his hold and force myself to finish undressing him. When he’s fully naked in all his filthy, painfully thin glory, I see the evidence of what I didn’t want to believe. It’s so plain, so obvious, I have to turn away, so I don’t retch.

                There are bruises all over the insides of his thighs, all different ages. On his low back and butt. Some are handprints, others indistinguishable, but all are—clear. They tell a horrific story. And I wish at  once that I didn’t know. That I didn’t know this terrible thing had been done to my friend. To my brother.

                “Bruce, dear God,” I whisper, forcing myself to reach for the showerhead. He’s gone limp at the base of it, hands loose at his sides, chin down so his eyes are hidden from me. But I can sense his fear like a cloud of noxious gas filling the room. “I will never do that to you.”

                “Bruce,” I say more urgently, suddenly desperate to have him understand me. His eyes snap to me and hold, watery and bloodshot and hollow. “I will never touch you like that,” I gesture at his skin, at his bruises, “I won’t make you do anything like that. I won’t hurt you.”

                Bruce stares me, his lower lip trembling, then he nods once. It gives me so much relief that I don’t even wipe at the tear that makes it past my own resolve. I let it fall down my cheek till it plops like a heavy gavel passing judgement on the tile.

                I don’t say anything else as I bathe him. He stands still, lets me carefully adjust his position, scrub at his limbs. When I offer the rag to him to clean his more personal bits, he silently obeys and does the job with quick efficient strokes.

                By the time I’ve soaped him twice, I can hear the other half of our rescue party returning to headquarters and I quickly dry Bruce and sit him on a bench by the tub.

                “If I leave you here, will you be alright?”

                Bruce blinks up at me, “What?”

                “If I leave you here alone, will you be alright?”

                Bruce swallows, hands gripping hard at the towel engulfing him, “Why do you need to go? Why are you leaving?”

                “I’ll be right back.”

                “I can come with you.”

                “Bruce…”

                He blinks again, confusion then frustration wrinkling his brow, “Why do you keep calling me that?”

                “That’s your name. You’re Bruce.”

                “I don’t like it.”

                “How about just B then?”

                He looks down at his lap, but nods mirthlessly, his hair making a curtain between us. I need to speak with J’onn and I need to get help to cut his hair. But I also don’t want to frighten him by leaving him to his own devices. Especially when its clear he’s starting to trust me a little.

                “B, what if I leave for three minutes, then come right back? I need to get some help. We need to cut your hair. And your beard.”

                “My hair?” he picks up a dreadlock and examines it, “It’s heavy.”

                “And dirty. It needs to go.”

                “OK.”

                “Then you need to see a doctor.”

                This brings us right back to square one and Bruce is scrambling back from me with a surge of renewed energy. He slips on the tile, but rights himself then is plastered against the far wall, his bony chest heaving with each breath.

                “You lied. You’re bad. You lied to me.”

                I lift both hands, the best sign I have of surrender, “I didn’t lie B. He won’t hurt you. He only wants to help you feel better. You’re sick.”

                Bruce blinks rapidly, eyes filling with tears, “Doctors aren’t good.”

                “This one is. He’s—just like me. He’ll help you. I won’t leave your side for a moment when he’s with you.”

                Bruce’s eyes scrunch shut, and I can see he’s working to level his breathing. To calm himself. It’s an echo of a man who used to be able to control his own heart rate so well he could stop it with willpower alone. It makes me ache to watch it. 

                “You won’t leave me?”

                “No.”

                He opens his eyes to slits and they dart to where we left the little red scrap of cloth he brought into the shower. It’s clean enough to see it’s the same shade of red as my cape.

                “You can have that too.”

                Bruce starts nodding, making a humming sound in the back of his throat as he moves quickly to grab the scrap before sneaking it back into the folds of his towel. He then goes to sit on the bench and keeps humming, eyes locked on the far wall.

                It’s only as I’m leaving the room to find J’onn that I realize he’s humming London Bridges Falling Down.

                 

**Bruce**

They cut my hair and beard down to the skin. It feels strange not having the odd chunky weight and I feel oddly—free. And more vulnerable without the constant weight. My face is clean and easier to read. I don’t want it to be.

                They will use it against me. Just like they’ve always done.

                When I’m sitting in baggy sweats on a bed that has too thin of a mattress and smells like antiseptic, I feel my fear returning. The man in the blue and red suit told me that this doctor wouldn’t hurt me. He told me he’d stay at my side and that had been strangely comforting. I didn’t understand why or how it helped to know he would be near me, but it did.

                I don’t want him to leave me alone. I don’t want to see the doctor.

                Doctors hurt you. They take from you and prod and test. They shove needles under your skin and make your mind turn to fire. They turn everything upside down and make the world scream so loud your ears bleed. I don’t want to see him.

                “B, this is J’onn. The doctor I was telling you about. He won’t hurt you. I’ll be right here. Right next to you.”

                I look at the red and blue suited man and then warily look back to the one he spoke of. This one is dark skinned and he smiles. He has very white teeth. His brows are high and his hands look careful. My shoulders loosen a little but I still reach for my red blanket and work it rapidly between my fingers. It feels like silk there and helps to settle the extra bundles of nerves that clench my stomach angrily.

                “Hello B. I need to take a look at you. May I?”

                I frown, rolling a shoulder, “Fine.”

                The red and blue man smiles a half-smile, amusement tinging his eyes bright blue. Something warm and familiar tugs at my middle seeing that smile and I focus on it for a moment to distract myself from the dark skinned one. He moves near enough I can feel his breath on my face and I go stalk still, eyes slamming shut.

                “It’s OK B. I’m right here,” the red and blue man is speaking softly, his voice comforting to me. It helps a little when I feel the careful prodding of foreign hands brushing my temples, my neck, my shoulders. They ghost along my ribs and back, then skip down to my legs and finally end on my feet.

                “You will need to gain some weight, B. A good thirty to forty pounds. And it appears you have some parasites. The other wounds, are too old for me to treat. They have healed on their own and will scar. I will start you on a fat rich diet and get you going immediately on antibiotics and anti-parasitics.”

                I blink open my eyes at him and scowl, “How can you know all that? You didn’t poke me? You didn’t hurt me.”

                “No. I don’t need to,” J’onn is smiling at me, his eyes crinkling, “I can read your body with my mind. Neat, isn’t it?”

                I look at my lap and down to the red blanket. I run it through my fingers several more times, ignoring the soft buzz of conversation between the two men. When they finish, the red and blue man is standing in front of me again, his mouth frowning down at me.

                “You’ll need to stay here tonight so J’onn can observe you. He wants to start an IV. That means he’ll need to poke you with a needle. But it’s one poke and that’s it.”

                I feel the prickle of sweat break out over my face and neck but I nod anyways. Why do I want this man to be happy with me? Why am I trying to be brave for him? I don’t understand.

                “Who are you?” the question slips out of me before I can stop it and I duck my head immediately to avoid a blow I’m certain will come. When none does, I peer back up to the man and see his eyes are soft and worried.

                “Clark. I should have told you before. My name is Clark.”

                “Will you stay still? Like you promised?”

                He smiles, “Yes. I will. I’ll stay all night. I don’t need to sleep.”

                “Why?”

                “Because I’m an alien.”

                I blink at him, rub that blanket between my fingers a few more times then nod. It makes sense to me, but I don’t know why. Now that my initial terror isn’t so huge, I feel like I recognize this place. I feel like it looks familiar, though I know I couldn’t possibly know it. All I know is the pit.

                All I know is—pain.

                I shiver, hunching my shoulders and look down at my knees.

                That’s when a tall dark-haired woman comes rushing into the room and wraps herself around me so tightly I can hardly breathe.

                I panic.

 

**Clark**

 

                There isn’t time to warn Diana, or to block Bruce from her view. She comes into the room so quickly and with such speed, I barely have enough time to register who came in, let alone that it’s her.

                And then she’s hugging Bruce and he’s stiffening again and there’s this godawful whining sound that erupts from his chest, like a dog being kicked. Diana jerks back from Bruce, tripping over herself as she does so. Bruce is melting down again, breath coming too quickly, heart like a trapped butterfly in a jar and I step between them, blocking him from her view.

                “Diana—he’s not—he’s—”

                “What’s wrong with him?” she says in a strangled voice, her eyes suddenly misty. “What did they do to him?”

                “Not here. Not now. I can’t—we can’t talk about it now.”

                “Clark,” the whispered name at my back makes me pause and I turn to look at Bruce. He’s reaching for me, grabbing onto one of my hands with a death grip and I sigh, looking up at the ceiling, begging for wisdom. I have no idea what I’m doing. I have no idea how to make this situation less terrible than it already is.

                “Diana, he’s going to be alright. But he doesn’t remember us.”

                “He said your name.”

                “I just told him. It’s been a rough couple of hours getting him to trust me. He’s—in a rough place. A lot happened. I can’t talk about it right now. But you need—you need to go.”

                I bite my lip when her mouth opens in a pitiful attempt to say something, say anything and then snaps closed. She strides out of the room in the next second and Bruce’s grip on my hand goes lax before pulling away entirely.

                “I don’t like her.”

                “She’s—she thought you remembered her.”

                “Who is she?”

                “She’s,” _the love of your life_ , “Someone who cares very deeply for you. We’ve been looking for you, for a long time.”

                “I don’t understand.”

                I look down at him, at the gaunt cheeks now visible without the beard and the short nearly buzzed hair, “You’ll remember. Given time, I’m confident you will. But until then, we’ll take it slow. I won’t force you and no one else will. We’ll focus on getting you better physically first.”

                Bruce sits rigidly for the next ten minutes until J’onn comes back and surprises me when he hardly puts up a fight over the IV. I’d expected another breakdown. Definitely more tears. But he did neither. No, he sat with his lips compressed and his face so pale he looked like he was about to pass out, but he had my hand again and held it like a lifeline.

                I was absurdly proud of him for it.

                With the medicines pumping through him and the lights turned down in the med bay to dim, I find a seat and tug it near Bruce’s bed for my night. He watches me with wary eyes, his body slack but gaze sharp and I smile at him once I’ve gotten situated, hoping he sees my intent is still good. I am still trustworthy.

                When he finally drifts off, I find myself curious enough about his little rag that I’m willing to risk nipping it from his side. As he fell asleep, his grip loosened and the fabric slipped to the sheets, like blood in snow.

                The minute my fingers curl into the clean cool edges of it, I know.

                I don’t know how I missed it before. Probably because it was caked in dirt and blood. Because it was so disgusting I didn’t want to examine it so closely.

                But I can see it now and that wall I started building the moment I saw Bruce again, cracks straight down the middle. My shoulders start shaking before the sobs work their way up my throat. I clench down on any sound and press my forehead to the edge of the bed, willing the tears to come quietly. They do.

                They make wet patches on the bed and I suck in careful breaths as I try to wrap my head around what Bruce went through. As I try to understand how this all could have happened in the first place. But I can’t. I’m too emotionally spent. I’m too worried and scared and upset. All I can do is crumble and _feel_. And it feels awful. It feels suffocating.

                Bruce shifts in his sleep, patting the bed blindly for the scrap of fabric then its clutched in his fingers again and I bite my lip to keep the sound inside.

                All this time, he’s been holding onto a scrap of my cape.

                He’s been holding onto a piece of me hoping I’d come save him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Diana**

I don’t get to see Bruce for nearly a week and when I do, it’s through a glass window while he’s sleeping, so I won’t disturb him. He looks vaguely better than the last time I saw him. Than when I’d had my arms wrapped around him in a too-tight embrace and had felt every bone in his abused body.

                That terrified creature, the one who’d wanted me as far from him as possible, has been haunting me every minute of every day since I left the med-bay. I haven’t slept without dreaming of him. I haven’t had a spare moment in any day, without worrying and thinking and festering over the open wound that are my feelings on the matter.

                The man I love does not remember me. In fact, I terrify him. I cannot swallow such a bitter pill. It makes me want to wretch and draw blood. To hurt with my bare hands and then to hurt some more when the strength leaves me. I don’t know what I need to make the ache better, but my words and prayers feel empty and broken. My heart, a fluttering shredded kite, with no wind and no tape to mend it.

                I have no idea how to fix this. I have no idea how to proceed when the man I love is sitting just out of reach, only a shell of who he was with no roadmap on how to return. And to make matters worse, I cannot even draw nearer without causing more damage. I want to touch him so badly that my hands itch and my skin feels stiflingly tight. It’s been so long since I knew the feel of Bruce’s skin under my fingertips, of his lips pressed into mine and his heat wrapped all around me. My memories feel like shadows haunting and betraying me. They make me pitiably weak.

                I stare blankly at him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, sightlessly taking in the monitor beeping to the rhythm of his pulse. J’onn wants to release him for home care as soon as possible. He says it would be better for his psyche to be in a place that holds the meaning and value of safety for him. That means, ‘home’.

                But he won’t be coming home with me.

                My hands curl into fists, the nails digging into the flesh of my palms and I force the image of Bruce sleeping restlessly in that goddamn hospital bed from my view. I turn from the panel of windows, the only gift given to me this last torturous week, and I stalk back the way I came. The only person Bruce has wanted near him, is Clark, and even though I understand, even though it makes sense to me, I still want to rail at him. I want to hurt someone. Something. Anyone.

                There is no one to blame about this other than Luthor and he is already imprisoned, comfortably enjoying his three-square meals a day while he awaits trial. It isn’t enough. It will never be enough.

                If Bruce weren’t so against the taking of life, Luthor would already be dead and by my hands.

                 “Diana,” Clark stops me halfway down the hall, his voice soft and questioning, “Are you leaving?”

                “Yes.”

                “But you just got here.”

                I nod carefully, lifting my chin to keep the tears at bay that want to burn my skin, “He doesn’t want me here and I’ve seen enough through the window.”

                “It’s not that he doesn’t want you Diana.”

                “I know Clark.”

                Clark’s expression is dark with pain. I can only imagine that being so close to Bruce when he is like this must be a burden heavier than any he’s ever faced. “I’m sorry.”

                “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

                “But you’re hurting.”

                “Everyone is,” I answer softly, letting my shoulders sag and the emotion leak into my posture, “I miss him.”

                “He misses you. He just doesn’t know it.”

                I feel the corner of my mouth tug into a smile and I shake my head, “I wish I had your unfailing optimism.”

                Clark doesn’t smile back at me, “He’s lost Diana. Lost in his mind and scared. He isn’t anything like he was. I don’t know how to bring him back.”

                “That isn’t your job. You’re doing everything you can. You’re being there for him—” I swallow as the tears threaten to choke me, “where I can’t.”

                “He loves you.”

                I almost correct him and say, ‘loved.’ Past-tense. Because we don’t know if he will ever come back. We don’t know if the damage done to his mind is too severe to recover the old him. Bruce may never love me again. I may always be a frightening stranger. The prospect makes me want to cower and hide, so I lift my chin higher and clear my throat.

                The warrior within me refuses to wallow.

                “J’onn told me he wants Bruce to go home.”

                “Yes. He thinks it will be good for Bruce. To be around Alfred and the boys.”

                I nod, “Do you think it might be too much at once?”

                Clark shrugs a shoulder, “I spoke with Alfred and we agreed to introduce the boys one at time, spacing it out. I’m going to be staying at the manor until—until things get worked out.”

                “And Lois is alright with that?”

                Clark’s smile is rueful and suddenly warm, “She’s coming with. Jon too.”

                “A full house then.”

                “The manor is so large I doubt Bruce will even notice Lois and Jon. They aren’t part of his recovery plan. They’ll just be there for me.”

                “Good,” I nod, “You’ll need them. Taking care of Bruce is bound to take its toll. Even on you.”

                I don’t mention that I can see it already has. Dark circles are etched beneath Clark’s eyes and his skin looks pale rather than the blushing gold of a man used to the sun. He needs a break from his constant bedside vigil.

                I step nearer without preamble, drawing Clark into an embrace that feels as right as the first time I offered it, so many years ago it feels like a lifetime. Clark is easy to hug. Big and warm and all arms. He gives as much as he takes and when he sighs into me, I hold him tighter, putting all my love and hope into him, willing him to give it to Bruce when he sees him again.

                Pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek, I withdraw from Clark and smile at him, but my eyes are impossibly watery.

                “When he’s up to it, please let me know and I’ll come by right away. I won’t push him. I just—” my throat snaps closed, and I bite my lip to stop the trembling, “I just need to see him. I need to hear him.”

                Clark’s eyes are hurt and pain again, a deep rich blue and he grabs my hand and squeezes hard. “I will let you know Diana. He’s going to remember. And the minute I think he can handle it, I want you right there beside me. He’ll be better for it. Even if at first, he’s scared. We need each other.”

                I nod, swiping at my eyes, “Yes. We do.”

                Our little trinity. We never really gave it a name over the years, but we’ve always drawn off its power and comfort. We balance each other out. We strengthen each other and even as weak as the bond is at present, I still feel its tethers, drawing us together. I still need it.

                “Thank you, Clark.”

                He smiles, a hand brushing hair from my cheek, another dancing a kiss on my knuckles, “We’ll get through this.”

                We will. I have to believe that we will.

 

**Alfred**

He’s coming home today.

                It’s been ten months, two weeks, and three days since Master Bruce set foot in the manor and the nervous energy in the walls feels like bees fluttering in and out of a dying hive. The young masters have kept to themselves, claiming the need to organize, or work a case, or even fall out for exercise, but I know they are all worried. They are all anxious about who this stranger is who will be coming home today.

                Everyone has been fully debriefed on the situation and the state Master Bruce will be returning in. That does not make the subsequent feelings about the circumstances any easier.

                Damian and Timothy have been unusually cooperative with one other, silently having been under some treaty for the last months and the peace in the manor has been—unsettling. Wrong. Oddly enough, I miss the constant bickering and squabbling. I miss the chaotic fighting and the broken pottery or glassware. I miss the sound of Master Bruce’s shouting at his ‘heathen’ children to shut their traps for one moment, or the sound of dreadfully off key singing and then war cries of rage when something has been unjustly stolen.

                Over the last year, such happenings have all but faded into silence. There are no fights. Only polite and stoic half-smiles with cooperative contributions to clean or help. Dick hasn’t been home in weeks and has claimed to be too busy for offered dinners with Bludhaven crime. Jason, hasn’t even bothered to answer a phone call in well over six months. The only confirmation I have of his well-being is a clipped text that he’s alive around every month or so, with a demand to send word of anything involving Bruce’s whereabouts when it comes up.

                And now, though it is still only myself, and the younger two, everything feels impossibly tense. I’ve cleaned and recleaned. I’ve baked several favorite sweet treats for simply something to do with all the nervous energy built up in my system. And still, I find myself looking for work, though everything is finished. We’ve nearly an hour left till they should arrive.

                I’ve gone over Master Bruce’s bedroom with a fine-tooth comb and have installed everything Clark requested prior to the arrival scheduled for this afternoon. Baby monitors—hidden for stealth, nightlights, and a triple locking feature for Bruce’s peace of mind on his bedroom door and windows. His sheets are cleaned, pressed and tucked tight as a pin. His house shoes and robe are laid out on the dressing table in the far corner of his room, as if he never left.

                  “Alfred!”

                The roar of my name startles me out of the mindless folding I’ve been occupied with, and I drop the fabric napkin back into the laundry basket in front of me.

                “Yes, Master Damian?” I query gently, waiting for Damian’s long lean form to come stomping into the laundry room. At fifteen, he’s dressed like a younger darker skinned version of his father in a black turtle neck and black slacks. His brows are drawn so low over his glittering green gaze that I can hardly see them.

                “Todd just called and informed me he was coming home for a bit. He said he wants his old room back.”

                I lift a brow, knowing already where this is going. But Damian is going to get it out of his system whether or not I speak, so I stay silent, waiting for him to finish. I’m secretly pleased to see any reaction out of him. It’s been so long since I’ve had to deal with an irate irrational teen that I’d sadly thought those days might be over.

                This is—refreshingly normal.

                “As you well know, I made that room the dogs’ bedroom as it adjoins my own. They sleep in there. So, does Alfred. I’d share my bed with all of them, but Titus takes up most of the space. Roman and Apollo need that bed. They can’t sleep on the floor and they aren’t used to sleeping in dog beds. I couldn’t possibly make them move now, when they’ve been doing it for well over a year. Jason hasn’t slept in his old room in ages. He can’t expect me to move everything. I refuse.”

                I nod, “Well, it is his bedroom.”

                “Not anymore. He lost that privilege when he moved out.”

                “As I recall, Master Bruce did say that if any of you boys were to come visit, your bedrooms would be left for your use. That room did used to be Master Jason’s.”

                Damian’s expression turns sour, “I refuse. That bedroom adjoins mine. It shares a bathroom. I _need_ that room for the dogs. They can’t sleep without having access to me. It would be cruel.”

                I stifle the urge to snort in disdain, because it would only exacerbate the situation and rather fold my hands on top of the basket in front of me, “Master Damian, I will do my best to persuade Master Jason to take the suite across the hall, but I can make no guarantees. It _is_ his bedroom we are speaking of. He can be very territorial.”

                “So, can I.”

                I smile, “Yes, I know. Let me speak with him. If nothing else, please remember that it will only be temporary.”

                Damian opens his mouth to say something, then pauses when we both hear the kitchen door open and then close. There are the sounds shuffling feet, a dropped set of keys on granite counters, and the rustle of bags being deposited.

                Lead fills my stomach and anchors me to the floor for a brief moment and I have to take a careful breath to calm the nervous flutter in my stomach.

                “We’re home.”

                Master Clark’s voice sounds welcome as he calls out; natural, and I move robotically towards the sound of it, already straightening my shoulders into their usual hosting position. Poise, ease, and respectability. No emotion needed for that.

                Damian wordlessly trails after me, but I can feel his tension like a strung out bow and I have to resist the urge to pat the boy on the shoulder. He’s almost taller than me now and I want to coddle him. He’s hardly a child anymore.

                When we enter the kitchen, I’m startled into place for a brief horrifying moment.

                I’d been warned and had thought myself prepared to see him. To see the differences in him. But this—isn’t exactly what I expected. I don’t know what I had expected but it isn’t this frightened ghastly thin man who only bears a vague resemblance to my memories.

                Something twists in my chest, hard and brutal. It takes a tremendous amount of effort to keep the savagery of it from my gaze.

                Master Bruce is standing a half-a step behind Master Clark, his large gray eyes made larger by hollowed cheeks and his shorter than usual hair. He’s wearing dark sweats and sneakers, but they look too big on him. I’ve never seen a more pitiable sight.

                “Hello,” I whisper, then clear my throat, “Hello, Master Bruce. Welcome home.”

                Damian is stone next to me, a quiet shivering stone. He says nothing.

                Master Bruce ducks his head, a nod of sorts, but stays behind Master Clark like a child hiding behind his parent’s pant legs when meeting a stranger. That pain in my chest grinds hard beneath the breastbone and I struggle not tor reach up and press a fist to it.

                “Hungry?”

                Master Bruce gives another quick nod, glancing around the kitchen, but his gaze keeps jerking back to Damian, a little frown marring his lips. Perhaps he recognizes his son, but I doubt it. There is too much innocent intrigue in the look to be recognition. And it would be too much to hope for such a thing this soon.

                “I’ve made cookies.”

                My voice sounds strangely empty.

                Master Clark smiles, “You like cookies, B.”

                “I do?” the words are whispered and slightly hoarse. The grinding turns to a splintering crack and I force it not to break wider by smiling falsely.

                “I can make tea as well. A favorite.”

                “Good,” Master Clark smiles again down at Bruce, reaching for his hand. Master Bruce gladly takes the hand and grips him with whitened knuckles as they skirt around the discarded bags to sit at the bar. Damian still has not introduced himself and I wonder if he will. It might be enough to simply see his father for the moment. There will be time to test reacquainting one another.

                And I don’t want to force anything or risk making the young master cry when I can see how much this affecting him.  

                Slipping into the role I feel most comfortable, I hardly bat an eye when I place a plate of peanut butter chip cookies in front of Master Bruce and he flinches. I say nothing when he suspiciously drinks the tea, all the while keeping Clark’s hand in his own like it’s the only thing tethering him to the seat. After twenty minutes, the cookies are gone, the tea has been drained and Master Bruce has gone back to studying the kitchen with furtive confused glances.

                His hand has loosened from Master Clark’s and now holds a strange red hanky, which he’s drawing through his fingers over and over, in an obsessive repetitive manner.

                “Master Bruce’s bedroom is completely ready for use and I’ve gotten the other bedroom prepared as well. You and Miss Lois will take the adjoining room, as you requested, and Master Jonathan will be over in the boys’ wing on the second level.”

                “Good,” Master Clark smiles, but its thin and the color looks bleached, “Are you tired B?”

                I blink over at Master Bruce and see he does in fact look tired. Like this little encounter has taken the last bit of his energy. He blinks sluggishly up to Master Clark, nods meekly, then goes back to stroking the red hanky. My eyes burn so I look down at my polished shoes. It wouldn’t do to frighten him with an emotional outburst, or to walk around the bar and demand that he allow me to embrace him. It wouldn’t do at all.

                “Have you got everything under control?” I ask, voice so tight it hurts.

                Master Clark glances my direction and there is knowledge in those eyes. There is pain and understanding and I nod briskly, quickly skirting the countertop to head straight to the laundry. When I’ve closed myself in with the smell of cleaner and linen, I allow myself to sag into against the washer and break a little.

                But I don’t let myself break for long. I’ve got things to do.

 

**Clark**

 

                “Here we are B. This is your bedroom.”

                Bruce bumps into my back as I stop inside the doorway and he peers out from next to my shoulder, his face almost brushing the fabric of my shirt in an effort to stay near. I could hear his heart slamming into his ribs, with each step we took down the hall and then up the stairs. He’s scared again but this doesn’t surprise me. It’s all new to him.

                “I don’t remember it.”

                “It’s alright. You will.”

                Bruce hesitates, his hands quivering, then he forces one foot in front of the other and steps out from behind me. Alfred has left the drapes open and sunlight spills prettily over the folds of Bruce’s King size bed. It smells like sunshine, bergamot, and linen in here. Like Bruce. I smile, watching as Bruce takes in this new space like a child might a new toy. He’s cautious, but obviously pleased as he walks to the window, stares out into the sprawl of garden and sky, then heads over to the dressing table to finger the folds of his robe with thoughtful eyes and a scrunched brow.

                “These are mine?”

                “Yes. Alfred must have left them out for you. You can change if you want. Or not.”

                “I—” he looks up at me, the frown deepening, “I want to change I think.”

                “That’s fine. Do you want me to leave?”

                “No,” he answers too quickly, then flushes pink up to the tops of his ears, “I mean, please stay. I don’t know—I don’t know this place and I don’t feel—.”

                “Safe,” I finish for him, smiling sadly at the way he’s twiddling that piece of my cape again, his anxiety blossoming all over his face and into those expressive lost eyes. It’s been almost two weeks and it hasn’t gotten any better. Not really. “That’s alright B, I’ll stay. I’ll just turn around.”

                When I give him my back, he quietly dresses with halting jerky movements. It takes him longer because he’s watching the door. I can hear his heart, skittering around in his chest and the fast, chopped way he’s breathing. It makes me ache, deep in my gut and I hate that everything is so changed. That this Bruce, the child-like frightened one, has no sense of security or identity. He has no notion that he could kill someone with his bare hands. That he has the training to take down an army just with his mind.

                That he was, and still is—deep down anyways—the Batman who haunts the streets of Gotham. Who frightens criminals just with his name.

                I wonder if he will ever remember. If all the things I keep saying, over and over, that he will remember, that it’s only a matter of time, are true.

                “Done B?”

                “Yes.”

                I turn, catch Bruce shoving his feet into those slippers Alfred laid out and a real smile flickers over my mouth. He looks more like himself in those clothes. With the robe, he even looks less gaunt and if I don’t look into his eyes, I can almost imagine he’s back to himself, ready to give me a lecture on using the front door rather than the window for a visit. The whole, ‘do as I say, not as I do,’ conversation we’ve had over and over throughout the years.

                “It looks good. Ready for a nap?”

                He looks to the bed, a flare of longing in his eyes, then hesitates, “Will you stay? Until I fall asleep?”

                “Of course, B. I don’t mind.”

                “I won’t need,” Bruce swallows like he’s struggling, his eyes staring a hole into the floor, “I won’t need this forever. Even if I don’t remember, you won’t need to be here all the time like this forever. I promise.”

                I very nearly reach out and touch him. Very nearly give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, because I need it. Not because he does. “Even if you did, I’d still do it. I’ll always be there for you B. Like you’d be for me. That’s what we do.”

                “Because we’re friends?” he asks.

                “Yes, because we’re friends. The best of friends.”

                He nods, accepting this information as easily as he as other bits I’ve given him. “I can see why. You’re very kind to me.”

                I laugh a little, “The old you sometimes disagreed.”

                “Then I wasn’t a very nice man.”

                I shake my head, “Yes, you were. You just didn’t always show it. But I like that about you.”

                Gray flashes eyes jerk to mine and I see the question before he says it. “Will you still like me if he doesn’t come back? If that other man doesn’t come back?”

                I do step nearer now, allowing him a moment to move away if it’s too scary and I take his hand to squeeze it. “Yes, B, I will. We’re family. I will always like you. I will always love you.”

                “Will—” Bruce is biting his lip now, his eyes filling with tears, “Will the others? I don’t know them. I’m scared of them. I don’t understand—I don’t understand why I can’t remember them. I can see they care about me. But they cared about the old me. What if—what if they don’t like this me? What if I can’t remember them, ever? Will they make me leave? Will they send me away from here?”

                I blink stupidly at him, momentarily horrified that he’s even worried about such a thing, “Of course not, B! This is your house. This is your home. No one would ever make you go away.”

                “But—” Bruce hunches those still broad but thin shoulders in, one hand stroking madly at the piece of cape I know he stashed in the robe pocket, “But that boy downstairs, he looked upset. And Alfred, this is his house. I don’t remember it here and they might not want me messing everything up. I hurt them by being here. I can see it.”

                “You don’t hurt them. They’re hurt by what’s been done to you. They just want you to be better. To be alright.”

                “What if I’m never alright?” the whisper is strangled and choked with fear. I shake my head softly, pulling Bruce into my chest even though I feel him stiffen at the contact. He doesn’t pull away from me and after a moment, he leans harder into my chest, wrapping his surprisingly still strong arms around my middle.

                “We’ll figure this out B. I promise.”

                He nods into my shirt, “OK.”

                I wait until he starts to go limp in my arms and then I tote him towards the bed. He sits heavily, kicks off the slippers then crawls over to the center of the bed and cocoons himself in the covers like I’ve seen him do a thousand times. Bruce likes to sleep on his side and it appears that preference is still strongly ingrained. He curls into a pillow, face disappearing in the blankets as he wraps himself in a complicated twist so the back of his head and neck are covered.

                “Comfy?” I ask, a laugh climbing up my throat.

                “Mmm,” he grunts. And it’s _almost_ the same. _Almost._

“I’ll sit over here until I’m sure you’re asleep. Then I’m just a word away. I can hear you anywhere in the house. You don’t have to be afraid.”

                “OK.”

                Bruce doesn’t take long to fall asleep and when I’m certain he’s out, I slip soundlessly out the door and then leave it open, so he can come find me if he needs me. I’m drawn almost immediately to long forgotten sound of an argument coming from Timothy’s bedroom.

                Only hours home and Bruce is already making things right again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came home today after a volunteering gig I do each week and had the writing bug bad. I've gone over it for errors, but I ALWAYS miss them anyways and I'm the sort who's too impatient to triple check. I'm sure I will go back and edit some more when I eventually reread this and see stuff flubbed. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Also, little warning. There is a reference to past sexual abuse during torture at the beginning of this chapter. It's not exactly explicit, but you know what's going on. So be forewarned!!

**Bruce**

                _The pressure on my chest is immense, heavy and slicked with sweat. It smells like rotten eggs and stale cigarettes. I can’t breathe past the tape over my mouth. It’s coming too fast and thin, little sips of oxygen through my nose and I gurgle around the blood and spit seeping down my throat._

_I’m drowning in my own fluids._

_My back arches on the table, wrists grinding in the bonds hard enough that I don’t even feel the sting of ripping skin. Legs free, I kick recklessly at the steel, drumming my heels, struggling to find purchase but finding none._

_Hands return, grip hard on bruised hips and I scream into the tape, renewing my efforts in escape with a blind panic. I can’t see anything. It’s sooty black darkness over my eyes and the smell of eggs in my nose and calloused blocky fingers dragging down my thighs._

_They don’t belong there, touching me like they own me. They shouldn’t be near me. But I lost control over what’s done to this body a long time ago. I lost control so fucking long ago…_

_I can hardly remember a time when I wasn’t here. I can hardly remember a time when I didn’t feel pain. It’s slipping from me, bit by bit. The good is dying and me with it._

_“Be a good boy and hold still. You need your injection.”_

_My screams grow choked when those hands go south, probing, nettling and the pain ratchets up to a sickening degree. I start to kick, start to fight again, because I need to. Because I can’t stop the need to fight even if it means I die. But then abruptly I’m spasming into a stiff board, muscles clamping cruelly over bone. Joints locking into place. Unmoving, unforgiving, unrelenting._

_White-hot pain blisters through my entire frame. I know this pain. I know this torture and I welcome it over the other torture from those fingers._

_My teeth snap closed and grind involuntarily till I can taste the powder of bone with the blood and my eyes roll back into my head. A ticking nob flickers in my periphery, drumming up the pulsing crackles. The pressure in my muscles increases until I feel like they will explode._

_They’ll kill me this time. They’ll finish me._

_I want them to._

_But—what about the boys? What about Diana?_

_They aren’t here. They don’t exist here. Only pain exists here._

_Electricity sparks along my veins, an odd mixture of phenobarbital and fire and the buzzing in my ears overrides the punishment between my legs, of whatever they’ve stuffed inside me. The crackling from one nerve ending to the next pushes away the heavy breathing that isn’t my own and the whispers and taunts. The scratch of pens on paper. The drip of fluids in a bag. The scrabble of wheels on linoleum._

_I forget it all. I forget who I am. I forget what they’ve been doing to me until only the arcing currents and the rush of my own pulse remain._

_It all slopes off the edge of a terrifying cliff and then stops. I sag into the cool touch of metal with a sudden nasally gasp, chest aching to draw in a full breath. But I can’t past the tape. I can’t breathe._

_I can’t think._

_Hands again, rough hands. Calloused hands. I know these hands and I cringe away from their smell that stinks of eggs and_ me.

_The tape rips off, tearing on raw lips and I suck in a greedy mouthful of air, too desperate to breathe to even realize that the blindfold has come off too. My eyes are still closed, my back arched to push in the air and the panic is still there, so near I can taste it in my throat with the snot and the tears and the blood._

_“Good boy,” a voice soothes at my head. Not the one with the hands that I know. My head lolls on the metal, eyes blurry and unfocused, jaw now slack. “Now tell me, who are you?”_

_“I—” emotion, thick, elemental and dangerous claws its way up my neck and into my eyes and I feel the tears swell in betrayal, “I don’t—d—”_

_“Tell him. Who are you?”_

_I blink, try to clear the image of the clipboard and the tubes and the fingers that I know but only see hazy shapes. “I don’t know.”_

_“Good boy,” those fingers scrape over my cheeks and comb through my hair, “We’re getting somewhere.”_

I come back to myself roughly and I find I’m lying face down on the floor, naked, sprawled and drenched in sweat. I immediately move to cover up, feebly reaching for the tossed comforter and the clothes I somehow managed to remove in my sleep.

I feel nothing just now. No emotions file into the memory banks nor do they fill the ache in my hollow chest. I am simply—alive. Breathing, functioning, awake and now hungry, but nothing more. Fear, I have become so accustomed to, I almost welcome it with open arms in comparison to this strange sort of being. I feel—safe? No, not really. But I don’t feel fear. And that’s almost worse. I don’t know what to do with this version of myself.

                Who am I? Who is this man that dreams of things that I don’t remember but feel in my bones happened? I remember other things. But not those things. I remember new things, but not _his_ things.

I’m remembering more and more in my dreams. Dreams that don’t feel like me. I don’t understand this man’s thoughts and his emotions. They are like me, but not. They are more—complex. In depth. They have more to them, than I can decipher and though I understand they are bits of myself from before, I’m scared of what they mean.

Will it all come back in one terrifying rush? Or will these dreams keep haunting me? Will they keep torturing me with little scraps of information that don’t make any sense to me? Will the black haired woman, Diana, from those long weeks ago come into my dreams too? And the boys, that the other me was so worried about?

                “B? You alright?”

I recognize the voice outside my door immediately and the tight knot of unease in my stomach loosens. Clark is here. He will know what to do. He always does.

_“_ Yes,” I answer automatically, though I am still uncertain if I am in fact, alright. It’s a question that people ask me a lot and I’m never certain of how to answer. Logic says I am physically, much better. At least, that is what they all keep telling me. Emotionally, there is a disconnect and I don’t feel—normal. I feel distracted and strange. Like I’m working through a haze.

It feels like I’m still being slipped medicines in tubes with bags. Like someone is still pumping things into me without my knowing it. The possibility frightens me too much to consider so I try not to think about it. But sometimes, when I’m sitting alone, or I wake after these dreams, I let myself consider the possibility.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes,” I answer again, carefully wrapping the comforter around my shoulders before sitting on the mattress. Clark comes in slowly, his large frame taking up the entire doorway and for one tiny flicker, I feel like I’ve seen him like this before. Big shoulders, blocking doorways, and a shy smile. Only there should be glasses on his nose. Then it’s gone and he’s only the man I’ve known just this last month.

I scowl.

“Bad dreams?”

I nod, though I’ve already carefully reached for my little scrap blanket to hold. I left it in my nightstand where I’ve kept it for sleeping the last ten days. I didn’t want to. But I feel like I need to try not to have it with me all the time. I don’t like that I have to have it. I don’t like that it makes me panicky not to know where it is at all times. And something tells me I need to depend less on it’s presence for comfort.

                That time isn’t now though. I _need_ it.

“How can I help you?”

“It didn’t feel like me.”

                “No?” Clark has moved closer and he’s standing in a slant of pale-yellow light from one of the two nightlights installed in my room. I’m grateful that I can see his face and know it’s really him. I don’t want to think about the hazy faces or the fingers.

                “He seemed different than me.”

                “Tell me about it.”

                I shift on the bed, suddenly uncomfortable about the prospect, then cast my gaze to the floor. This man is trustworthy. He’s safe and a friend. He’s proven that, hasn’t he? He wouldn’t say anything to make me feel worse. He wouldn’t hurt me, like the fingers did or the one with clipboard did. If that was even me…

                “They hurt me.”

                “The people from the lab.”

                I nod, “But I—” I swallow, twiddling fabric, trying to make the words come out of my mouth more cohesively. I still feel, foggy and strange when I try hard to get my words across. I don’t like how it makes me feel more trapped. “I don’t remember all of it. I don’t remember what happened in the dream. And my thoughts, they were different than mine would be. More.”

                “The old you, maybe?”

                “Maybe. Could they be memories?”

                “Yes,” Clark drops to a knee and peers intently at me, “They could be memories breaking through. Were you scared?”

                “Yes,” I nod quickly, hands fisting, “Very. I could see what they were doing and feel it, but it wasn’t exactly me and I didn’t know what to do. And then at the end, it felt like me again,” I shrug both shoulders, “I’m not making sense.”

                “Yes, you are. In a roundabout way. The dream was of you before you lost the memories. That’s a good thing B. I promise.”

                I blink up at him and then frown, “It didn’t feel good. It felt bad.”

                “I don’t mean what they were doing to you. I mean that there’s progress.”

                “Yes,” I whisper, “I guess.”

                “Can you sleep anymore?” Clark asks this gently, as if he’s worried I might cry. And I guess he’s not that far off the mark. I do feel thin and wary and—I stiffen like a board when I feel a deep odd ache in my middle and I have to press a hand to my stomach.

                There’s a part of me that recognizes maybe that pain isn’t real, but the other part, has no such comforts. It feels real. It feels very real.

                “B?” Clark is up and standing, both hands on my shoulders, “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong?”

                “I—” I blink, then stare sightlessly at Clark, “I remember they put something in me in that night.”

                “What?”

                “The man with the fingers that I know. The rough fingers with callouses,” my vision goes hazy and distant, the room fades a little and I can taste blood in the back of my throat. My voice doesn’t sound like my own, “He put something inside of me. It hurt like fire and it was—different than the others. He was happy about it. Proud. The one with the clipboard congratulated me. They laughed. They laughed when I cried and when I started to throw it up, I got beaten for ruining everything. But I—” the room sharpens and Clark is back in front of me and my mouth feels so dry I want a drink of water, “That wasn’t me. What’s happening?”

                A shiver works its way up my frame and into my shoulders and I feel wet on my cheeks. I’m crying. When did I start? What’s happening to me? I don’t remember what I just said but I know I said it. It came out of me.

                My hand is still on my stomach but the ache is gone and I’m staring at Clark because I want him to fix this. To fix me, but I can see in his face, he doesn’t know how.

                “There’s nothing in you,” Clark starts, his eyes wide and careful, “We checked you over good. I just x-rayed you. Nothing. I promise we wouldn’t have missed that.”

                “But there was,” I whisper, eyes burning, “I threw it up too many times, so they put it in the other way,” more words that don’t belong to me, more phantom pain in my gut and limbs, “and then when that didn’t work, they gave up. They moved on to something different. Another experiment.”

                I hiss as my head starts to throb and I’m forced to lean into Clark for support.

                “It’s OK B, I’ve got you. It’s OK.”

                “Why do the memories hurt?”

                “I don’t know.”

                “I don’t like them. I don’t want them,” I grind the words out as the pain ebbs and flows with pictures of that night in my mind. The man with the fingers that I know. The man with the clipboard and the little wire device that I threw up all over myself. Then the throbbing burn between my legs. The blood and the electrodes. The IV. It’s sharpening so quickly I feel sick to my stomach. This isn’t my memory. It’s _his._

_And I feel wrong for knowing I have it now too._

“Take a breath, try and slow it down. You’re going to have a panic attack if you don’t slow it down.”

                I nod weakly, pressing into Clark, working to forget a little. To make the memories less strong. They don’t want to leave me. “Why can’t I remember you? Why can’t I remember good things? Why can’t I remember Diana or the boys? I want those instead,” I start crying harder, rocking into Clark in a back and forwards motion. He lets me.

                “I don’t know,” Clark rasps, arms tightening, throat working.

                “Make it stop,” I whisper, “His memories are too strong. So much sharper. More painful than mine. It hurts.”

                “It’ll be alright.”

                That word again. The word that doesn’t make any sense. I snap my eyes closed and will my breath to slow, will my heart to steady, but all I can hear is the man I know with the fingers dragging his teeth over my ear, congratulating me for a job well done.

               

**Dick**

“We’ve had,” a pause, a weary sigh, then, “better nights.”

                “Yeah, I heard you both up at the butt crack of dawn. So, I came down and made coffee.”

                Clark looks over his mug at me and salutes with a weak smile, then swallows heartily. “Yeah, I needed this. If only for the psychosomatic effects. Thanks.”

                “Where is he now?”

                “Sleeping on the couch. He didn’t want to be in his room. He’ll be around looking for me soon enough.”

                I share a commiserating look with Clark and wonder if the man has any idea how awful he looks. “About that, I was hoping to take a shift on Bruce duty.”

                Clark frowns, expression darkening, “I don’t think that’ll go over well.”

                “Alfred said he’s done it a few times for you.”

                “He has. But usually after a couple hours, Bruce gets so panicky he has to call me back home. He needs me.”

                I nod, careful to keep my eyes on the floor when I next speak. I don’t want to step on toes or say the wrong thing. But I need to say this. “He does. But it’s been a month and it’s time to start—stretching him a little. Seeing how far he can go.”

                “I don’t think—”

                I hold up a hand to stop him and Clark sinks back into the counter, scrubbing a hand over his face.

                “Bruce would want to be pushed a little. This Bruce might not want it, but the old would. And I think we need to respect the old here. He’s not remembered much. I’ll grant that he’s gotten a little better. He’s not nearly as scared and he does some things alone now. But he’s also still clinging to you like he does that scrap of fabric and that isn’t going to fly forever.”

                “I know.”

                Clark looks like a beaten dog sitting against the counter and I’m very tempted to go over and hug the big guy. He’s been a constant in Bruce’s life for as long as I can remember, but he can’t be everything. Though he’s certainly been trying.

                “You need a break. The boys all want to see him more. And Diana—” I stop when Clark’s pained expression turns bleak, “You know she needs to come over.”

                “Bruce has said he doesn’t want to see her. Repeatedly.”

                “Only because he’s scared. She could be good for him. In fact, she would be. I’m sure of it. Given the proper time limits and some support, I think he could handle her presence for an hour a day. They need time together to rebuild.”

                Clark sips thoughtfully on his coffee as the kitchen sinks back into the morning hush and I contemplate the man resting in the other room. Bruce has spent a handful of hours in my present over the last month and all of them have been with Clark as a buffer. He’s been hiding from us. And at the first, I’d been too heartbroken to do much more than nod and accept what he was willing to offer. But after speaking with Jason and Tim and Damian, we all agree it is time to take a little more aggressive approach.

                At least in the sense that there needs to be forward motion. It’s what Bruce would want. What he would have wanted a year ago, had we found him like this and he’d been able to give advice.

                I’ve done enough second-guessing for all of us, but going by the gut has been something I’ve been working off of for a couple decades and it’s suited me well. The Batman taught me to use that strength. Bruce taut me to hone it and back it up with facts. I’ve got both going for me.

                Something needs to change. Bruce needs to be forced to take the next steps. No matter how painful it’s going to he for everyone to implement.

                It’s that simple and that goddamn complicated. Because it won’t be easy. And as calm and certain as I am right in this moment, I won’t be tomorrow. Or the next day when I see Bruce break down and start bawling like a kid. I won’t want to enact my plans then.

                Which is why this is going to be a team effort and all of the Batfamily will be involved.

                With Clark as quarterback, we won’t lose. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

                I’m big on mantras and self-talk though.

                “He had a memory last night.”

                “He did?” My focus sharpens abruptly back to Clark and holds. “What about?”

                “The torture. But it was before he’d forgotten who he was. He said it was the other him. That it felt wrong. He—” Clark blows out a breath, “He seemed like it was physically painful to remember, and it caused a panic attack.”

                “PTSD.”

                “Something like that. But it’s promising, isn’t it? That he remembered something. Bigger than just little blips or feelings.”

                “It’s something,” I agree, then nearly choke on a mouthful of coffee when I see Bruce leaning silently on the door frame of the kitchen.

                How long he’s been standing there listening in, I can’t be certain, but I don’t particularly like the lost expression on his face.  

                He’s gained around twenty pounds and has about as much to go, but he looks leaps and bounds better than he did the day I first saw him. His cheeks are filling out again and the line of his jaw isn’t so sharp it could cut glass. His shoulders have thickened some and his eyes look less wary. Less haunted, though they still flicker uneasily from object to object, constantly calculating threats.

                “Hey,” I offer quietly, and Clark straightens from the counter.

                “Coffee B?”

                Saying nothing, Bruce walks silently into the kitchen and takes a mug down from the proper cabinet. He sniffs idly at the already brewed coffee then pours himself a steaming mug of it. When he’s finished, he delicately sips at the brew but keeps his eyes down on the floor. He’s already moved within a foot of Clark and could reach out a hand to touch him if necessary. But I think Clark and I both count it a win that he isn’t reaching to hold hands.

                “I heard you had a bad night.”

                Gray eyes dance up to mine then quickly away, “Yes. I’m alright.”

                I lift a brow, “Yeah? I heard it was rough. You wanna talk about it?”

                Clark gives me a warning look, but Bruce merely shrugs both shoulders then scoots an inch closer to Clark. He’s scared of me, this much I know, but he’s never been as frightened of me as he is of Jason or even occasionally Tim. He and Damian are oddly peaceable with one another and say little. They’ve even shared the same couch to watch TV as long as Clark is nearby.

                I’m—a little bit of wild card. Sometimes he flees with me, sometimes he does OK.

                I wonder which it will be this morning and try not to feel the gut deep ache over knowing my own father fears I could hurt him.

                “I’m going to hang out with you today while Clark and Lois take some time off together.”

                Bruce’s frame goes rigid but he remains silent. I can feel the tension and guilt already rolling off of Clark in torrents.

                “We’ll have some fun. Maybe go for a walk out in the gardens, get in a little exercise. Take in a movie in the afternoon if you like. Alfred said he’d cook you some macaroni and cheese, homemade, if that’s something you still like. He said you need the fat.”

                “J’onn has me on a high-fat diet.”

                “Yeah, you need it. Could put on a good bit more weight.”

                Bruce frowns and it brings a lump to my throat. A little glimpse at the old Bruce who’d have snapped at me already to mind my own business. “I’ve gained twenty pounds.”

                “And you need to gain probably twenty more.”

                He looks back down and then sips some more at his coffee. Clark moves off the counter and puts his cup in the sink but I see Bruce’s posture immediately changed from semi-relaxed to frightened.

                “You’re leaving?”

                I clamp my lips shut to stop myself from trying to comfort him. That’s Clark’s job. At least right now.

                Clark offers Bruce a warm look and smiles like he does at Jon sometimes. The wrongness of having to comfort a nearly forty-year old man like this, is still tear-inducing. I’m glad I’m not the one to do it day in and day out. But I still wish I could lessen Clark’s burden. “I’ll be back later tonight. It’s good that you spend time with other people and not just me.”

                “I know that but—” Bruce swallows, putting his mug down on the counter because his hands are shaking too badly, “but what if something happens while you’re gone? What if I—remember more?”

                “Then Dick will be here to help you. Or Alfred. Or any of the boys. They all care about you just as much as I do. And you’re strong B. You’ll be able to handle it without me.”

                “But—”

                “I need to go B.”

                Those words are final and I’m surprised Clark managed to make them sound that way when I can see how much this entire exchange is upsetting him.

                Bruce’s eyes drop immediately to the floor and his cheeks fill with pink and suddenly I feel like I’m intruding. Like I’m watching a kid get verbally dressed down by his parents and I shouldn’t be privy to this. I don’t think I’ll ever get accustomed to seeing Bruce like this. Chagrined and unsure. Needy. It does something to me to watch him like this and it certainly isn’t good. It fucking hurts.

                “B, I’m not mad at you. You didn’t do anything wrong. But we need to work on stuff, you know that, don’t you?”

                Bruce nods.

                “And you know that I won’t stop caring about you just because I leave for a day? I can hear you anytime, anyplace. I can come at a moment’s notice if something is really wrong.”

                “I know that,” but he’s whispering it like he doesn’t. The rock in my gut turns to metal and I feel myself sinking with it.

                “You’re safe here.”

                “Yes.”

                “And I’ll be back tonight. We can hang out then.”

                “Yes, of course.”

                The words sound like the old Bruce, but the tone comes out reedy and wilted. Not Bruce at all.

                “Alright B, let’s let Clark head off. He needs to get ready and so do we.”

                Bruce stands rooted to the floor until Clark leaves the kitchen and then it’s just the two of us. I try for light and unaffected, but I can see that it isn’t going to work well. Bruce looks physically sick.

                “Do you need a shower today?”

                He shakes his head.

                “Then let’s get dressed and do that walk. A bit of fresh air can do miracles for the blues.”

                “I’m not sad,” he blinks up at me, “I’m—lost.”

                I frown, “Then let’s find you. And get some fresh air while we’re at it.”

                Bruce doesn’t argue and being my optimistic self, I take that as a yes.

 

**Tim**

 

                Dick and Bruce come in from the gardens just after lunch and I say nothing when they take bowls of Alfred’s homemade mac and cheese into the family room to flip on a show. I’m seated in the love seat, a book in front of my face, legs stretched out to take the whole space up, but I’m focused on anything but the book.

                We’d all agreed that the only way to make Bruce more comfortable with the people he’s most scared of is to expose him to them more. His least favorite people at present are myself and Jason. Jason terrifies Bruce. He’s big and loud and looks mean. That makes sense to me.

                Me? I’m shorter than he is for God’s sake and I’m definitely more in the category of wiry nerd than anything else. Apparently, that hasn’t computed in his massive brain, because from the moment Bruce saw me again, he’s been afraid of me. Not outright blubberingly terrified like Jason, but still, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes. He doesn’t like being around me and he certainly doesn’t trust me.

                I watch him watch me for the first ten minutes of the movie, struggling to relax with his food. He takes nibbles of the noodles, his gaze switching from me to Dick, Dick to me. After thirty minutes, he’s relaxed into the sofa pocket and has his legs tucked up close to his chest. He’s got the food beneath his chin and he’s eating more pointedly, his eyes actually focusing for brief stints on the stupid cartoon Dick put on. I feel a ball of anxiety in my stomach loosen and I settle more firmly into the love seat.

                I still can’t focus on the words in front of me, but this feels good. Like a really sweet victory. Clark is nowhere in sight and Bruce is actually eating something next to other people without panicking. He looks—anxious and tense, but that doesn’t really matter. Baby steps.

                “Hey Tim?”

                I blink over the ridge of my book and frown at Dick. Dick’s moved a little closer to Bruce and any ease in the man’s posture has vaporized as his eyes dart to me and hold, wide and panicked.

                “Wanna sit over here? I’m cold and could use a body blanket.”

                It’s not an uncommon request from Dick. He’s about the cuddliest dude I’ve ever met. But with Bruce on Dick’s other side, that will be the closest I’ve been to him since he got home. And Bruce looks about ready to bolt.

                I swallow thickly, feeling those finicky emotions of confusing pain as I watch Bruce a moment and then finally nod. Bruce braces himself, bowl of noodles forgotten, hands white knuckled on the rim and fork.

                “Sure.”

                I stand slowly, walk over to where Dick is patting the couch and sit on the edge first, like I’m about to break it with my weight, then delicately slip further into the cushions. Dick sighs happily, jerks me into his side and hugs me tight to himself, effectively just about cutting off my air supply.

                “There. That’s better isn’t it.”

                I laugh into his chest, because my face is squashed and forget for a moment altogether about the tense figure on his other side who doesn’t want anything to do with me. I forget that my own dad is more like a kid with serious issues right now, than not.

                “Dick, I can’t breathe.”

                “Sure, you can, use your nose.”

                “Dick,” I squirm a little and he lets me loose enough, so I can wriggle up to put my head on his shoulder rather than have it pressed into his armpit. “God, you’re a leech.”

                Dick laughs, and I see Bruce flinch in my periphery. I try not to let the guilt swamp me. But try is the operative word. He looks miserable pancaked into his corner with that only half-empty bowl of and mac and cheese. We’ve ruined his appetite and he needs to eat.

                I almost get up and leave.

                “OK over there B?” I ask and feel the flex of Dick’s muscles on my back as he holds me still. I don’t like being the cause of his fear. I don’t like seeing that look on his face like I’ve hurt him somehow. But I guess I’m not going to be moving anytime either.

                “He’s good, aren’t you B?” Dick answers for him, a light fake smile stretching his mouth. And I can see right away that he’s just as wound up tight as myself. He’s just as uncomfortable and worried and scared as I am. But he’s better at hiding it.

                Bruce nods quickly, curling further into himself, his eyes going all watery and weird, then he looks back down at his bowl and starts poking at the undoubtedly cold pasta with his fork. I feel sick to my stomach.

                “Good. Everyone is good,” Dick swallows and I see him take a quick breath, “This is my favorite. I love SpongeBob.”

                There’s several minutes of quiet listening and the tell-tale signs of Patrick and SpongeBob antagonizing their neighbor Squidward, then a choked laugh from Dick. I smile, forcing myself to unwind a little. To reminisce on childhood and getting caught staying up too late to watch cartoons that Bruce always thought were brain melting. He’d sit through them, but only out of courtesy. Never because he actually enjoyed them like we all did. Rather, like we all do.

                Bruce stares a moment at the screen and I’m more than a little relieved to see the moisture is gone from his eyes. But I’m absolutely floored when he decides to speak. “Why does Patrick not think well? He’s slower than everyone else. Is he like me?”

                Dick and I stare at Bruce for a moment and by the grace of God, we manage not to laugh.

                “No,” Dick says carefully, “He’s a sea star. And they don’t have very big brains. Plus, this is just a silly cartoon. It’s stupid. Just for laughing.”

                Bruce frowns, but I can see his curiosity is piqued and the mental wheels are turning. Like old times, no matter the subject that’s caused it. I’m grateful. “What’s a sea star?”

                “A kind of fish. We could look it up on the computer if you like. Tim can show you. He’s a whiz with that sort of stuff.”

                I stiffen, and Dick gives me a reassuring pat as Bruce considers. Then he nods with a little jerk of his chin and goes back to poking at his noodles. I feel like I’ve just won the biggest teddy bear at the fair. Bruce is actually going to let me near him. It’s damn miracle.

                Progress tastes sweet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter, but I didn't want to break it up. Also, a lot of angst and pain here. Little by little though, he's coming back to us. And I'm so looking forward to writing all the goo as it comes. Steadily, surely, B-man is breaking through.

**Damian**

                “Clark said you haven’t bathed in a couple of days and I have been tasked with helping you.”

                Father shrinks away from me, his expression swaying between surprising petulance and then anxiety. “He usually helps me.”

                “Clark is busy today.”

                “I don’t think—”

                “You’re twice my size. Do you think I can overpower you?” I ask abruptly, searching his eyes when they seek mine and then fall away.

                “No, I suppose not.”

                “Good. Then this won’t be a problem. Besides, you can bathe yourself, can’t you?”

                He nods, and I re-position the towel, razor and shaving cream in my arms. “Then I’ll just stand guard as you do what needs doing.”

                This makes him pause and I wonder if he’ll argue again. Not that he’s put up that much of an argument in the first place. But still, Father didn’t give in as easily as I expected him to. This pleases me immensely. Standing in the hall with my own father, arguing over whether or not he should shower would be laughable, if it weren’t so commonplace now. And I prefer the arguing to the panicked crying. I don’t like seeing Father like that at all.

                Father is afraid of showers. They make him feel uncomfortably exposed and this does not surprise me. Enemies often attack when they perceive weakness. Being naked or using the restroom is an impressive weakness and an excellent time to pounce. But there are no enemies inside Wayne manor and my father is safer than he’s ever been. At least physically. The mind is a terribly slippery place.

                I follow Father up the stairs and into his bedroom with a handful of steps between us. He still doesn’t walk at his full height, but rather skulks, head down as if prepared for a blow and shoulders slightly dipped. However, I’d have to strain to hear his footfalls. He’s being extra careful to keep them silent. It brings a smile to my mouth to see him using some of his training without even being aware.

                “Would you rather I wait inside the bathroom or out?”

                Father glances behind me at his room, then towards the shower and then sighs softly. “Inside please.”

                I nod briskly, then give him my back so he can disrobe. He does so with equal stealth and has the water on and running within seconds. The stall to the shower is glass but snowy and so I turn to offer him a lifted brow when I’m certain he’s inside. He’s backed himself into a corner of the spacious stall and has the soap already squeezing into one palm, his gaze directly on the door behind me. A caged animal, ready to attack, should the need arise.

                I’d been skeptical at the start when Grayson and Todd had insisted we become more involved with father’s care. I wasn’t certain it could be of any help. After all, I’d been there when he’d first come inside the manor and had seen firsthand how ruined he was.

                Father—was not Father. Not in the least. Sometimes, when I close my eyes at night just before falling asleep I see his gaunt face and hear his screams in my ears. It makes me more determined than ever not to give up on him.

                “Razor?” I murmur, holding out the handle of the blade towards him. Father blinks at me, then frowns over the edge of the snowy glass.

                “I don’t remember how.”

                “Hasn’t Clark taught you?”

                “No. I wasn’t—”

                Able to. Ready to. All of the above. It’s only been in the last week where Clark has even left his side. Still, I feel a little tremble of anger rush up my throat at the idea of Father being left without proper training over something so trivial.

                “I can show you.”

                Father nods, tipping his head into the spray to wash out the soap. He never closes his eyes or moves them from the door. I try not to let it bother me.

                When the water turns off and the bathroom is thick with steam, I drape a towel over the glass and wait patiently for Father to emerge. He does so with careful stuttering steps, his chin tucked down more than normal as he tries to skirt past me into the bedroom. I stop him with a hand and very nearly withdraw immediately when he ducks and tries to scramble back, slipping dangerously on the wet tile.

                “I would never hit you.”

                He blinks at me, face pink from the shower, eyes wide and disbelieving. I sigh and point at the bathroom sink, “I said I would teach you how to shave.”

                “Oh,” Father says quietly, but moves towards the sink to stand. With only his waist covered, I can see easily why he acts the way he does and acid threatens at the back of my throat. He’s crisscrossed with the marks of someone who’s been beaten. He’s always been scarred. Always marked by the many battle wounds of the Batman. But these are—repetitive, angry, slashes along the backs of his arms, over his shoulders and chest, up to his collar bones. They dip down his belly and hover just at the edge of the towel.

                I reach for the razor again and force my fingers not to shake. Father doesn’t appear to notice. He’s too focused on his own anxiety of being half-naked in front of me with essentially a weapon in my hands.

                “You need shaving cream.”

                He blinks stupidly at me. Then nods and retrieves the bottle I brought with. Spraying a gob into his palm, I gesture at his bristled face and point him towards the mirror.

                “Wipe that in a thick layer all over your cheeks, up the bones and down your throat. Anywhere you see hair.”

                He does so with an odd look on his face. Almost—warmth. Maybe it’s simply gratitude. Either way, I scarcely resist the urge to hug onto his back and just hold tight. Just soak in the heat of Father’s skin like I might have after a bad day in Gotham or a night where death got just a little too close.

                I hand over the blade when he’s washed his hands and then carefully wrap my own around his knuckles to guide the first stroke. “You don’t push too hard. Or you’ll cut yourself. But you can feel the blade on your skin, and how much pressure to use, right?”

                He nods.

                “Good. Now you do it on your own.”

                Father leans towards the mirror and peers into it with narrowed eyes, then starts in long careful swipes all by himself. I smile smugly at his reflection and wait for him to finish the hygienic task without any further prompting. It seems to invigorate him, to do this task without my help, and when we walk into his bedroom and I linger by the door, he doesn’t even look afraid that I might go. That he might be left alone.

                “You should wear the slacks today. And a button down.”

                Father’s light expression falters then darkens into a familiar scowl. “Why? I like the cotton and jeans. They’re more comfortable.”

                I laugh, because surely he’s had this conversation before with Alfred in the past. “Because Diana is coming today and you want to look nice. We’re having lunch with her.”

                “Diana…” his voice has gone whisper thin and any color he gained from his shower is gone. One step forward, three back. Grayson had warned it would be like this. Particularly with his greater hang-ups. Diana has been a fear for weeks. And it’s time he faced it.

                Todd is another cliff we will be forced to die on soon. The two can barely be in a room together. And there are only so many ‘accidental’ run-ins we can plan before we’re forced to go with the head-first method. Clark and Drake are staunchly against the idea. Grayson is undecided. Myself and Todd are in agreement that we will never gain any ground if we don’t risk losing some.

                “Clark will be there.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think to stop them. I don’t want to reinforce that Father can keep using Clark as his safety net whenever he’s afraid. We’ve been working to remove that constant need.

                Father’s eyes dart up from the slacks draped over his bed and he swallows, “None of you want me near him anymore.”

                “No,” I say, quick to defend, then sigh, “Not exactly. We don’t want you using him so much. We want you to try and stretch yourself.”

                “You think it will help me remember more.”

                “Maybe. But more it will make you independent again. You used to like solitude more than anything.”

                “I don’t anymore.”

                I open my mouth to say something else but Father’s mouth is thinning into a mutinous line and his brows are drawn low. “I don’t think I like this color.”

                “What?” I ask, surprised he’s moving on so quickly, “Navy?”

                “Yes,” he looks over to where his closet is and then pads directly to where a row of black turtle necks are stashed. I stifle the grin that wants to spread over my mouth. “I like these. Black is better.”

                “Then wear one.”

                “OK,” Father fingers a sleeve, tugs it off the hanger then pulls it over his head. There is the briefest flicker of a curve on his mouth when he smooths both hands down his front. It makes my eyes water mercilessly to see and I have to look away to hide it. “I like this. It feels like me.”

                “It is.”

                He pauses, then a real smile flits over his mouth. “Is it?”

                “Yes. You used to wear them all the time. A favorite in your wardrobe.”

                Father stares at me for a long unwavering moment as something like a shiver goes over his frame. “You wear them too.”

                “I do.”

                “You like black and you like it when I run my hands through your hair when you think I don’t know you aren’t asleep yet at night,” he blinks, then frowns darkly, “I’m sorry. I don’t—I don’t know where that came from. I’m sorry.”

                I swallow past a lump the size of a fist in my throat, “Father, don’t apologize. They’re memories. And they are special to me.”

                He opens his mouth, then closes it, then stares for so long I don’t think he’ll say anything else. He doesn’t. He moves disjointedly to finish dressing and over to the slacks on the bed, quickly tugging them on. We don’t say anything else. There is a hollow tang in the air and I can’t be certain whether it’s because of the memory or because he is anxious about seeing Diana. But I can’t help but notice that he’s looking at me strangely and he can’t stop stuffing his hand into his pocket where I know he stashed the piece of red fabric.

                Clark is at Bruce’s side the moment we come in the room and Dick is by mine. Tim offers me a questioning lifted brow and I merely shrug. Jason is—absent.

                Everything in the room feels stiff and strange and quiet. Absurdly quiet.

                Father is looking down at his cutlery, his hands gripping the wood of the table so hard I can see the knuckles whiting out. His lips are compressed into a flat angry line and I recognize it at once for anger. Anger and pain.

                It dawns on me in a slowly grinding speed why. Why Father is acting like this. Why it all went slamming to a stop and suddenly he looks upset and on the brink of a meltdown. Diana is cautiously smiling at Father and Clark is frowning at him, crinkling his brow with worry. Nobody knows what I’ve done. Nobody knows how I messed up yet.

I called him Father instead of B.

                We hadn’t decided as a group when to tell him who we really are. I guess I’ve decided for us.

 

**Diana**

                “I’m a father.”

                Everyone at the table is staring at Bruce, eyes glued to the man who looks so close to himself I’ve been struggling since the moment he walked in with Damian not to step up and greet him. Not to lean in and smell his aftershave and soap. Not to press my lips to cheek in a greeting of old times.

                But something is wrong. Something is very wrong with Bruce.

                His shoulders are taut, brow wrinkled, and hands clasped on the table’s edge so tightly the grip looks bruising.

                “What?” Clark speaks gently, reaching to grab Bruce’s hand and a ripple of shock tightens the air when Bruce jerks back and scuttles away from the touch, standing up to get away from the table. As far as I know, Clark has always been Bruce's safety net. The only person he  _wants_ to touch. 

                “B, calm down.”

                “No,” Bruce stammers, eyes dark as soot, chest heaving as his gaze flickers from one person to the next then fleetingly brushes over me before going back to Damian. Damian isn’t looking back. His head is bowed and he’s white as a ghost.

                “What happened B?” Dick tries, staying seated though I can see everyone ready to jump up and act. The snapping tension in the room is thick and forbidding. Something went wrong in their plan but I’m not certain of what.

                Bruce points a finger at Damian and a thin whine comes out of his mouth like it hurts to speak, “He’s my son. I’m his father,” he drops to a tripod and starts panting, “God, it hurts. It hurts so much.”

                “B,” Clark is on his feet, trying to help, trying to reach for him but Bruce reels backward and hits the dining room wall hard enough for the decorative plates lined alone shelves, to fall and shatter to the floor. The sound is cacophonous and the affect is frightening. Bruce crumples in on himself, a ragged sob haunting the room and gooseflesh rises like thistles on my skin. I push to a stand, as desperation claws up my throat to do something, anything.

                Dick stops me. He stops me from flinging myself into the fray and making things worse, but it’s so hard not to. It’s so hard not to do something for him.

                “I’m a father. You didn’t tell me. You lied to me.”

                “No, B. I didn’t lie. I didn’t want to scare you more. Please understand, you haven’t been yourself.”

                Bruce bats helping hands away and cries harder, “You lied. You should have told me. He looks just like me. I should have known. I don’t know anything. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know—I don’t know—” there’s a little gasp, a hiss, then Bruce goes terrifying limp and slumps down the wall.

                “Bruce?” I bolt, ignoring anyone who tries to stop me as I’m at Clark’s side in a flash of breath. “Bruce?”

                “He’s breathing Diana. He just passed out.”

                “He what?” I ask, feeling like I’m listening to everything underwater all of the sudden. I can’t see anything but Bruce’s red, tear streaked face. I can’t hear anything but the steady but fast rush of his pulse or the rapid panting breaths he’s taking. Fear curdles into bitter knots in my stomach and I have to take several breaths to stop myself from gathering Bruce into my chest and merely taking him from this place.

                My instinct to protect feels too big. Too strong to ignore.

                “Diana, he’s OK. This just startled him.”

                “He feels betrayed,” I whisper, tears closer to my eyes than I realized. I’m on the edge of a breakdown myself. “Why didn’t you tell him Clark?”

                “I didn’t think he could handle it,” he looks down at Bruce and frowns, “and I was right.”

                “It was my fault.”

                I look over my shoulder and see Dick kneeling in front of Damian and can see the teen is already in tears, looking like guilt personified.

                “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to slip and call him Father.”

                “It’s OK, Dami. You didn’t mean to. And he was going to find out sometime.”

                “I’ve ruined things. I—I made it worse.”

                Clark sighs, brushing an absent hand over Bruce’s forehead, his fingers lingering at a temple, “No, you didn’t. He hasn’t had a meltdown in nearly two weeks. It was bound to happen again. He’s remembering more. And this pushing him means we’re likely to hit roadblocks. It’s no one’s fault.”

                “You should take him up to his room. Get him settled,” Timothy suggests quietly, the only one who has remained seated. I don’t know where Alfred is, but there is a part of me that is glad he is not present for this.

                “I suppose I should leave—”

                “No,” Dick interrupts me, eyes so blue on mine they rival the color of the sea, “Please stay. We haven’t seen you in weeks. We miss you.”

                Something inside me snaps a little and the dining room blurs beneath a sheen of tears. I work to swallow them away, to clear the emotion that wants to drown me, but I can’t and I suck in a tired breath before the dam breaks loose.

                Timothy is the first to approach me, then Dick and then finally Damian and even though Jason is missing from the collective hug, I feel his presence around me. I never thought I’d love them as much as I do their father. But in this moment, I realize that I do. I love them all. Equally, fervently, and without question.        

 

**Clark**

                By the time I’m laying Bruce down on the mattress in his bedroom, I can feel him stirring. Blurry washed out eyes find mine and stare in an unfocused manner at my face for a cycle of breaths, then he’s rolling away from me and giving me his back. It’s the first time he’s drawn _away_ from me rather than nearer in weeks. Not since the shower directly after finding him in the labs. It hurts more than expected and I have to stifle the little lurch of pain in my stomach. I did this after all. I deserve this treatment.

                “B, I’m sorry.”

                My words sound hollow in the dimly lit room and they fall as ballast between us, dark and forbidding and unwanted. He doesn’t want me. I can almost hear him screaming it out loud and I tense to be told so. But it never comes. Bruce merely curls into himself tighter, the ridges of his spine sticking out against the black of his shirt.

                His pulse has smoothed to a steady thrum and the roiling of panic from the dining room feels long gone. In this odd stillness, in the aftermath of everything, it feels like someone has died.

                “What else?”

                I blink into the grainy light and look down at Bruce again. I can only see the line of his cheek and a set of eyelashes making a dark shadowy smear on the bone. His hair has grown long enough again to look messy and disheveled. Boyish. If he were to add gel and comb it, he would look like Bruce Wayne, heir to a billionaire throne, with ease.

                “What do you mean?”

                He sighs, eyes snapping closed angrily, “What else have you kept from me? What else is there?”

                “I haven’t kept—”

                “Yes,” he rolls and pins me to the bed with a stare so dark and pained that it is exactly like the Bruce I know and it steals my breath from my chest for a harrowing moment. We stare at one another, I fumble a little with my hands in my lap, wishing I had something to fill them. To keep them busy. Then he’s looking lost and watery again, like he’s drowning and I couldn’t possibly rescue him. I suppose that’s true. I can’t save him from this. I can’t save him from any of it.

                “The other boys are yours too.”

                His chin dips, quivers, “My sons?”

                “Adopted. But yes. Damian is the only one who is blood. The other three are yours too though.”

                Bruce’s expression blanks, eyes wandering away then back again. “Jason, the one I never see,” we both don’t need to say it is because of how Bruce reacts when he they do run into each other, “he’s mine too?”

                “Yes. They all are. Four boys.”

                “I—” Bruce swallows thickly, hands fisting, “I’m a terrible father.”

                “No,” I hush him, reaching again to try and bridge the sudden gap between us by grabbing for his hand. This time, he lets me, and I feel the tension break and then drip off me in waves. I’m so relieved at being forgiven that I don’t even care that he’s still looking at me like I’ve betrayed him. In some twisted way, I suppose that I have. I did keep things from him. But I did it because I thought it would hurt him worse, if I were too divulge too much, too soon. I wanted to tell him, at the right time under better circumstances with better planning. I never anticipated that plan backfiring in such a glorious way. “You’re a wonderful father, B. You love them.”

                “I’ve forgotten all but flickers of them.”

                “That’s not your fault. It will come back, given time. It will.”

                “I remember Damian is stubborn and reckless. He likes ice cream when he’s sick.”

                I blink at him, then smile weakly, “Yes, that’s right. Did you just remember that? In the dining room?”

                “Yes.”

                “Is there more?”

                His eyes dance to mine and look haunted. “I have flickers of Dick leaving me. He and I fought with each other and then he left. But he’s here now and I don’t understand what happened in between. I was very upset. It—” he breathes harshly through his teeth, gripping my knuckles so tight they should hurt, “destroyed something in me. In him. The old Bruce. But I feel it too and it aches with everything else. It—” he swallows, “the memories are not all good. Even the good are not all good.”

                “No. You can’t have all good or all bad. That’s life.”

                Those gray eyes are assessing me again. Stark and devoid of sympathy and I recognize the betrayal bleeding under the skin again. It tastes sour in the back of my throat.

                “I trusted you Clark.”

                I look away, because even with Bruce like this, even with the softness and the disconnect, disappointing him feels like a knife under my ribs. “I know, B. I’m sorry I broke your trust.”

                “Who is Diana to me?”

                I tense, and Bruce sounds weary when he starts to tug his hand away from me. I break another rule and keep the hand, desperate not to dig the trench deeper between us. But I can’t let go right now.

                “You loved her. Deeply.”

                “Was she—is she—my wife?”

                “No. Not yet. You and I talked about it. But neither of you felt particularly pressured to add the title of spouse in the mix. You were happy enough living together.”

                Bruce’s breath sucks in sharply, “She lived here?”

                “Yes.”

                I don’t want to see his eyes now, because I know it will hold more condemning upset. More fluttery tattered edges of betrayal, because I’ve said nothing. I don’t know how to explain myself other than to say that it never felt right trying to explain it to him. The man could scarcely let go of my hand to pee let alone handle being told he was in a committed long-term relationship with a woman he’d told me repeatedly he didn’t want to see.

                “She must hate me now,” his voice has dropped to a whisper and I can hear the tears clogging up his throat. But I can’t fix this.

                “No. She doesn’t hate you. She’s hurting. But so are you. This has been difficult for everyone.”

                “She couldn’t come home because of me.”

                “No—”

                “Stop,” Bruce rasps, ripping his hand away, like tearing stitches too early out of tender skin and I flinch. “Stop it. I—I want you to go.”

                “What?”

                He rolls, and I’ve only got the view of his back again. The pit of distress in my stomach returns and I don’t realize until I’m frozen and gaping at him, but my hands are shaking. He wants me to leave. But I can’t make myself move.

                 “I said—go. I want to be alone.”

                “Are you sure?”

                He pulls on the blankets and tugs them up over his shoulders, hiding himself from my view. But I’m gifted with painfully perfect hearing and I can hear the glide of tears running down cheeks. I can hear the hiccupping breaths being sucked into his lungs. God, this is awful.

                “Yes. Please go.”

                “OK.”

                I force myself to unfold and for my numb legs to walk across the floor. When I get to the doorway, I find myself stopping again, unable to finish leaving and I wait. For what, I don’t know. But I wait anyways.

                Bruce makes a strangled sound of pain and I recognize it for weeping. A man weeping because he didn’t know he was a father or that he used to be in love. So deeply in love, he was finally happy. Simply, plainly, happy.

                “Bruce?” I whisper, “Are you—”

                “Stay,” he whispers angrily, though it’s laced with desperation. “I don’t want you to go anymore.”

                I don’t say anything else, because, how could I? I’m too close to tears myself. Instead, I quietly climb onto the bed, wrap an arm around Bruce’s middle and wait for him to cry it out until he falls asleep. It’s the best I can offer.

                It doesn’t feel like enough.

 

**Bruce**

_“Father, how could you not tell Grayson that the box of shredded Wheaties in the pantry was mine? I explicitly told you that it was. I wrote my name on it. I explained it to everyone.”_

_“Yes,” Alfred muses quietly, his lips quirked in a smile, “You did.”_

_Dick looks so far from apologetic as he shrugs both shoulders, that I catch Alfred struggling not to grin wickedly from the other side of the kitchen. Everyone in the Wayne household is well-aware that any form of cereal is unsafe in the presence of Dick. He eats them without qualm or preference. They're all appetizing and certainly not off-limits simply because someone wrote their name all over a box in Sharpie._

_“Then?” Damian is growling, his lips pulled back into a feral snarl as he gestures vaguely at Dick who is still shoveling mouthfuls of Wheaties between his lips._

_I take a scalding mouthful of coffee into my mouth and try not to smile. Smiling would only make the situation worse. It would only make Damian angrier. No matter that when he gets like this, he becomes impossibly young and determinedly feral. It’s adorable._

_“Damian, I can buy you a new box on the way home from the office. Fair enough?”_

_“Not nearly.”_

_“Come now Damian,” Diana speaks quietly beside me, eyes sleepy and warm, hand wrapped secretly around my knee beneath the table, “It’s early. Be peaceful.”_

_Damian makes a grumbling sound but doesn’t argue anymore. Diana has that affect on the boys. She’s the calm in the storm of copious amounts of testosterone. I feel the corner of my mouth tip up when I feel her fingers dance up my thigh and it brings a flutter of desire to my middle. We already snuck in a few hushed moments in the predawn light, wrapped happily around each other in a cocoon of our own making. Skin and warmth and laughter._

_But I wouldn’t mind having seconds, time willing._

_“Coffee? Please tell me there’s coffee,” Tim comes barreling into the kitchen, one sneaker on, his hair flattened except for the crown where it stands up like cockatoo feathers with an armful of textbooks._

_“Yes, Master Timothy. I brewed a second pot, just for you.”_

_Tim stretches on tip toe to kiss Alfred’s cheek messily and is rewarded with a pleased smile. Damian is till sulking, but now at the bar, picking at a plate of eggs and Dick is only just now coming up for air from his stolen cereal. He’s dressed in his police uniform and looks absurdly adult. Pride and love mingle equally in my chest when I look at him. We've come along way, he and I. And I'm grateful beyond words to have him here._

_“I’ve got to leave in five,” Dick says quickly, tossing back the remainder of his coffee as he stands to brush crumbs off his pants._

_“Twelve-hours?”_

_“Yeah, so I won’t be able to make dinner. But thanks for breakfast.”_

_“Anytime,” I muse, sipping on my coffee while still being keenly aware of Diana’s hand inching up my leg. “How’s Jason?”_

_“Busy. He sends me texts sometimes but he promised to be here Wednesday for dinner.”_

_“Of course he did,” Diana smiles, “I threatened him. He works too hard and doesn’t eat enough.”_

_I agree, though I find Diana’s mothering extremely attractive and heartwarming. I let her boss the boys when I don’t want to deal with the arguments. They don’t tell her no. Me on the other hand, they’d give the bird to in a heartbeat, if it suits._

_“I look forward to seeing Master Jason. It has been too long.”_

_“Yes,” my gaze flickers up to Alfred’s and we share a commiserating look, “they grow up too fast and stay away too long.”_

_Dick snorts, “You say that now. Not always the tune.”_

_“I’ve been reformed.”_

_Diana laughs, “Don’t we all know it.”_

_Damian rolls his eyes. Dick smiles like he’s won a prize and Timothy smirks over his second cup of coffee. He downed the first in nearly three swallows. Alfred starts humming to himself as he cleans up the dishes._

                My eyes peel open to take in the room and I can see that the sun is nearly setting from the drawn blinds. I’ve been asleep for hours then. There is a heavy arm draped over my middle still and I can hear snoring, half-hearted, but steady at my neck.

                Clark.

                He didn’t leave. He didn’t leave because I asked him to stay.

                I sigh into the warm pressure he offers and try to hold on tightly to the feeling from the dream. I wasn’t scared then or angry or upset. I was happy. I can still taste it in my mouth like a sweet candy and I go over the details, desperate to hold tight to every fragment. I don’t want to lose the feeling or casual touches. I don’t want to lose Diana’s hand on my leg. Or Tim’s smirk over his coffee. Or Damian’s growling about his cereal. Or Dick’s casual optimistic presence.

                But the longer I am awake, the further the dream feels and I know that it will fade with the rest of the half-memories I’ve managed to gain.

                And this was a memory. I can feel it.

                It was too—real. Too many feelings toppling over each other and too much strength in the feelings. Too many details soaked in by the old Bruce, that I wouldn’t have been able to capture. He thinks so much more detailed than me. His emotions, stronger and sharper, though so much better controlled are almost too big for me to swallow. But I want to. I want to keep these memories because for once, they are good. For once, they show me that it wasn’t all bad.

                That I might have something better than all of this.

                Being a father in the memory, had come naturally. There was no fear or trepidation. Being a lover, that had felt easy too. And if I close my eyes, I can almost feel the slippery edge of anticipation in my stomach when I feel those questing fingers on my thing.

                Until the fingers become rough and calloused. Then the good flutters away and burns into embers.

                My eyes snap open and I feel Clark wake up. His hold tightens for a moment, the breath at my neck becoming shallower and alert.

                “I’m alright,” I whisper, because it’s what expected. Because it’s what everyone wants to hear. But Clark doesn’t say anything, he merely curls harder into my back. I let myself drift with him until my stomach growls and Clark slowly withdraws.

                “You need to eat.”

                “I’m not hungry.”

                He lifts a brow, peering as he props himself onto an elbow, “Yes you are. I’ve been listening to your stomach grumble for an hour.”

                I look down and shrug, “Maybe I am. A little.”

                “Then let’s go downstairs and get something.”

                “I don’t want to see them.”

                “They aren’t here.”

                I blink, then feel an odd fluttering of anxiety in my middle that doesn’t entirely feel like it belongs to me, “Why? Where did they go?”

                Clark smiles weakly, “They left with Diana.”

                “Oh.”

                That makes sense. The Diana in my memory was soft and warm and very motherly. It was obvious they cared about her and she them. But I still feel oddly—disappointed. And bereft when we come down the stairs and pad into the kitchen for food. Yes, that word. Bereft.

                Alfred is the only one there. He’s already made tea and has a plate of buttery crescent rolls arranged on a plate. It looks natural too. It looks like the dream a little. Something like gratitude and—love?—wrenches in my stomach and makes my mouth feel dry.

                “Supper is in an hour. But I took the liberty of preparing a snack.”

                “I—” I look at the food, then try a smile. It feels oddly plastic on my mouth. “Thank you.”

                “You’re very welcome.”

                Clark takes the seat next to me and we eat silently. I don’t say anything more, but I can see him watching me. I can’t take my eyes off the table from my dream. From my memory. Or his? It feels like mine. Or maybe I just want it to be mine because it was so good.  

 

**Jason**

                Fuck, this is a bad idea.

                But it is _my_ idea.

                Well, and the little Demon’s. We’ve been on the same page for weeks about how to handle Bruce’s straight up aversion to me. But that doesn’t make this any better. Clark said he wasn’t sure. Dick said he thought it would do too much damage. Diana—she’s somewhere in between. But I respect her opinion, so I didn’t really like that she wasn’t fully on board with it either. Alfred has been suspiciously quiet about all of it. And the Replacement doesn’t count either. Whatever comes out of that computer mouth of his, is usually way too cautious for my taste.

                Though everyone obviously agreed to some extent. Because I’m here. I’m sitting in this goddamn room waiting for them to shove Bruce in the doors and lock us in. There is something to be said for the direct approach. And this couldn’t get more direct.

                I start pacing the study and wonder briefly if I can handle just what I said I could. Sure, it had stung just a little that the old man was more scared of me than anyone else. And even though, on some level, I understood, there was and still is a bit of myself that felt fucking bitter about it. I’m the black sheep of the family, I get that too. Which makes sense why for some reason that personified into Bruce being abso-fucking-terrified of me.

                But still.

                Still…

                I don’t want him scared of me. I don’t want to make him cry or make him panic. I don’t know if I can stand in the same room as him and pretend like it doesn’t feel like knives are being forced under my nails when he inevitably starts to freak out.

                But I’m here. And I’m ready. And I’m not backing out now.

                I can hear the footsteps on the polished wood flooring outside the study and my shoulders go so tight it aches up the back of my head. Clark is out there, ushering Bruce to the room as if this is just going to be a little exposure therapy where he sees me, with Clark’s help, and then he can go.

                That’s not going to be what happens.

                There’s about to be a showdown of epic proportions and no one knows how Bruce is going to react. I’d rather he try to kick my ass, but somehow, I don’t see that happening.

                The doors open, silent well-greased hinges swinging big oak slabs inwards, and then Bruce is standing beside Clark and staring at me with his eyes wide and color slowly leeching away to alabaster marble.

                “Hey, old man.”

                He blinks at me, Clark swallows awkwardly and then gives Bruce a little shove from behind. It’s all a little comedic, if you don’t sit there and think about it too long. And then the doors are quickly closed before Bruce can even turn around, though his mouth is opening in a question, head turning already as his body follows to leave.

                But he’s not going anywhere and that becomes painfully obvious at once.

                He’s stopped by the door and without so much as another glance in my direction, he’s trying the knob, the taste of frantic anxiety spilling in black waves into the room. I brace myself, lift both hands, then speak again, in a soft neutral voice. I can see it does shit.

                “We should talk.”

                Bruce jerks hard, casting me a panicked glance over one shoulder as he goes at the door handles with more urgency. They don’t budge. I know for a fact that Clark is standing on the other side holding the handles. It feels a little sick to trap a full-grown man in his own study with the object of his terror. But it seemed like a good idea at the time of this plan being hatched.

                “Clark?” the voice comes out even, but with the edge of hysteria creeping in, “Clark? I don’t—” he looks over his shoulder at me, then presses his face to the door, breathing quick and sharp terrified breaths, “I don’t want to do this. Please open the door.”

                There is no answer and something like slimy guilt crawls into my middle. Fuck, this is going to suck.

                “Hey B, over here man. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. But we should talk.”

                “Clark?” the voice has edged up into a yell and he’s pounding on the wood now. “Let me out. Let me out now.”

                “Old man, they aren’t letting you out. You guys talked about this. We need to get over this hump.”

                “No, we didn’t talk about this—” Bruce hisses, expression bleak and frantic, “Open the door. Open the door. I don’t want to be in here. Let me out!”

                “You were never going to get over this, without being pushed. You know that.”

                “He said he would be here,” Bruce yells, banging both fists on the wood with lethal force.

                “He is. On the other side of those doors.”

                “What?” Bruce turns now and there is an abrupt switch from panic to betrayal then panic again. And this is when I decide its time to enact step two in the plan. Because it can’t get much worse, right?

                 Like ripping a band-aid off. The quicker, the better.

                 I take a couple steps closer and I can see the decision to run Bruce’s eyes as clear as day. He bolts, a rabbit from the hunter away from the doors and to the farthest corner of the room. I follow, slowly, purposefully, keeping both hands raised but with dogged determination.          

                “We need to find out why you’re so scared of me, old man. And we can’t do that if you run every goddamn time. It’s been two months. We need to do this.”

                “Stay back,” Bruce hisses, eyes blinking rapidly, hands bracing on the wall with his back pressed flush to the wallpaper.

                “I can’t do that. I’m not going to crowd you too much, but I’m going to get closer. I’m not talking to you across the room.”

                “No,” Bruce chokes out, tears swimming in his gaze, “No, that’s too close. I don’t want—Clark! Clark, please!”

                I stop abruptly and feel the revulsion from Bruce rush over my spine with nasty sticky fingers and I want to wretch. We’re on the edge of something so dark I’m not sure I even want access to it. But I’ve never given up so early in a fight and we’d agreed this was the plan. Get within a couple feet of the old man, talk it out. Find out what’s making him freak his giblets out, then move on. Simple as that, simple as—

                Bruce runs again, across the room, behind the one of the sofas and lets loose an absolutely chilling stifled scream. I can hear the abrupt pressure on the door as Clark is second-guessing and everyone else is listening raptly, confused and worried and unsure. I don’t know if I can do this.

                I don’t know—

                Yes, I can. I can do this. I can face him like this.

                He’d do it for me. He’d face anything for me.

                “I would never hurt you, old man. I swear it. I just want to talk. Please.”

                Bruce is all wild instinct now. His pupils are blown into wide black discs and I can see he is so far down the fight or flight tunnel that he won’t be able to see out of it. I anticipate blood, snot and tears at the end of this. Maybe this was a mistake after all. Maybe this wasn’t what we should be doing at all.

                “Old man,” I try again, weakly, taking a few steps again in his direction but then I’m faltering altogether because something bleak and dreadful clips into Bruce’s gaze. It’s so quick, so fluid and unexpected, I’m almost entirely unprepared for it. I startle, abruptly backing up when I see, because goddamn it, I’ve seen that look before. But there isn’t time.

                He switches from defensive helpless creature to offensive lethal killer in a heartbeat. He’s not running anymore. He’s not Bruce.

                This is Batman.

                I dart backwards, aware that this version of Bruce will absolutely destroy anything in it’s path but find that he’s still fucking fast. Bruce is on me in a millisecond, a feral growl ripping from his throat as he attacks viciously, delivering punches almost quicker than I can block them.

                Some hits slip through, splitting my lip, knocking my teeth together, sucking the air out of my lungs when a knee connects with my kidney. I’ve really got little to no choice but to do the same. But I try to do less damage. He’s been out of the business for a year and it shows. He’s lethal and graceful, but weaker than me. Not as heavy or thick.

                This close, I can see there is no color left in the iris of his eyes. It’s too eaten up by the glossy black of his pupils and it’s easy to tell, there’s no one home. Bruce left the building and I’ve got the Bat instead. There’s something sick about the fact that I inwardly rejoice.

                This, right here, is much fucking better than the other version.

                Even though we’re both panting and scrabbling and hurting each other. It feels like a breath of fresh air. Like taking a hot bath after a super suck-ass day.

                We fight like dogs, slamming into the bookshelves, knocking off precious first editions and plowing blow after blow into each other. Nothing breaks, at least not bone, but we tear into each other with primal anger. And a whole lot of repressed training on Bruce’s part. The man I’m fighting knows exactly what he’s doing.

                And he could win if I’m not careful.

                I can hear in the periphery, the study doors burst inwards and then I can feel several pairs of eyes on us, but nobody stops the fight. Nobody steps in.

                Either they’re too shocked by Bruce’s abrupt shift in behavior or they’re like me, too happy to see the Bat in action again to want to stop it. Even if the Bat has a nasty right hook and he’s got me swallowing mouthfuls of my own blood.

                We grapple like wild men, kicking, hissing and growling until after one blow too many to my face, I decide I’ve had enough and I press the advantage of my weight and height on the old man to wrestle him to the floor. It’s like trying to tame a fucking cobra.

                He bellows in outrage beneath me, bucking and clawing, teeth snapping at my forearms like he’s going to rip a chunk out of me. I wouldn’t fucking put it past him, so I keep his mouth clear of any skin, but I don’t let up. I press him hard to the floor, harder than I would’ve dared a handful of minutes ago and he fights it with everything he’s got.

                After another minute, maybe two—I can’t tell, it feels like fucking forever—he finally sags limp into the floor and it’s only a handful of seconds before he starts back up with those terrible whimpering noises. Tears flood his eyes and those blown pupils recede until I can see just the touch of gray bands around them. All at once, the Bat is gone and I’m left feeling empty handed and grief-stricken.

                I want the Bat. I want the anger. But I’m not going to get it again.

                “The hands,” he whispers, and I frown down at him, suddenly confused. But he’s babbling now, incoherent, “the hands that I know. Rough and calloused and big.”

                I blink at him, then see that my hands are gripping the front of his shirt in fistfuls, inches away from his face and he’s blearily watching them, face a mask of horror.

                “My hands?”

                He nods, eyes sliding closed, tears dripping steadily to the floor from his temples.

                “My hands scare you?”

                “Fingers. Fingers are like his.”

                I can hear the air shift and sour at my back and then Clark is pulling me off Bruce and separating us with soft movements. He’s kneeling beside Bruce, who looks like a wrecked dummy on the floor and I’m still scowling, looking at my hands as if I should just fucking cut them off. I’ve never felt so much animosity towards a part of myself I have no control over.  

                “My hands scare him.”

                Clark draws Bruce into his chest and hugs him tightly, the picture of a soothing parent, “I never connected it. But it makes sense. He’s scared of you because your hands are like the man from the lab. Big and rough and calloused. He’s told me so many times…I wish I’d thought of it.”

                “Well, fuck,” I hiss, turning on my booted heel about ready to fly this fucking shit storm but Dick is there, and I hit the solid wall of his body with a slap. I almost sock him in the nose for being in my way.

                “Jay, it’s alright.”

                “No, it’s not,” I growl, “I can’t fucking change my goddamn hands. I just put them all over him and of course he’s—of course he’s scared of me. I remind him of someone that fucked him over. Literally.”

                The idea that I could resemble any part of one of my father’s tormentors makes vomit cling quick and wretched up my throat. I barely manage to stifle it and the only thing that probably does is the fact that Dick is standing right there. And he’s got me smashed into his chest before I can stop him, before I can think better of it and then I’m dealing with my own stupid tears as they burn my eyes and swarm my throat.

                The feelings coursing through my veins are fire and venom. I want vengeance. No, revenge. And then I want to bathe in the blood.

                “Jay,” Bruce whispers, and the room goes so still no one is even breathing. “Jay, I’m sorry.”

                “Why, old man? You didn’t do anything wrong,” I choke around the words and drop to my knees, careful to keep my hands behind my back.

                Bruce is peering out from Clark’s sweater, his face weary and body boneless. There is no trace of the Bat anymore nor is there _my_ Bruce. But I can see this one cares. This one understands to some degree that I’m not the man who hurt him. He doesn’t want to be afraid of me. And it’s something. God, it’s something, no matter how pitifully small.

                “I’m sorry,” he repeats, eyes slipping closed.

                I swipe angrily at my cheeks and shrug, “I’ll wear gloves around you. Not a big deal.”

                There’s a flicker of a smile, a little flash of bloody teeth as he grimaces and then Bruce is staring at me again and I realize that man _was my Bruce._ At least for that flash. It does something outright cruel to my chest and I suck in a breath and back up.

                “OK, old man. Therapy done for the day. I’m leaving.”

                “Jay—” Dick tries to stop me, and I shake my head hard.

                “No, I’m good. I just need some air.”

                “Do you want company?”

                I look at Dick and then shrug, “As long as you don’t gripe about which music I pick, sure.”

                “Deal.”

                We don’t come home till Bruce is in bed and I have no chance of running into him. But I keep a pair of leather gloves in my pocket, just in case.


	5. Chapter 5

**Alfred**

Master Bruce is progressing. Slowly but steadily and in a manner that makes me wonder if he realizes how little bits and pieces of himself are naturally coming back, all on their own.

                I watched him make a sour face over the decaf coffee I tried to sneak into his mug after lunch and he promptly went to the kitchen, without addressing me, just to brew a new pot. Fully caffeinated. Another day, when he thought himself alone, I observed Master Bruce working through his letters in his usual cramped script. By the time he’d copied the alphabet nearly twenty times, he was scrawling away a letter with flawless ease and his brow had unwrinkled as if, it all suddenly came back.

                Perhaps it did.

                After the scene in the study with Jason, things have begun to pick up pace around the manor. No one says it outright, but everyone is aware of the fact that Master Bruce is moving in the halls with more ease. He slips away from time to time without speaking in a way that is so much like his former self, I would be hard pressed to remember the slip of a shell he’d been when we’d first met again in the kitchen.

                That time feels like a lifetime ago. I’m glad of it.

                He has even begun allowing me to call him Master Bruce without correction, something I am very much grateful for.  As much as the others don’t mind calling him B, he is and will always be, Master Bruce to me and I prefer it above all else.  

                He’s sitting out on the veranda now, a newspaper folded absently on the edge of the patio table, his expression vacant but mild and I can see him twiddling his favorite scrap of red cloth between his fingers. It will likely disappear in a moment back into his pocket to prevent anyone from seeing him with it. And I will say nothing because it has become a silent agreement between the both of us, not to speak of it. The scrap means something special to him and I am loath to remove the security it clearly offers.

                Diana should be by any moment for a visit. I can only imagine that is the cause for the sudden appearance of the fabric. Master Bruce has kept it hidden for days and is staunchly protective of it. I made the mistake of asking to clean it two weeks previous. He melted down so quickly into a feral child protecting his toy that I haven’t had the heart to ask again.  

                “Master Bruce?” I query gently, offering a plate with cookies on it. He glances up, sees the cookies and hesitates. The man has always had the biggest sweet tooth but used to keep a rigorous lock on the cravings due to his fitness regime. Since his return, he’s eaten whatever I offer without aplomb, until the last few days. Where I believe something may have shifted.

                Now he’s been thinking. And I wonder if it’s because he remembers his old ways or if his appetite is changing as he’s nearly put on all the weight from before.

                “I probably shouldn’t,” he muses darkly, then drops his gaze back to the untouched newspaper. In black and white, the front-page article has a splashy picture of Superman being spotted in Gotham during a bust beside the Dark Knight.

                The photo doesn’t manage to capture more than a smudge of black cape and pointed ears of the ‘Batman’, but it’s enough to make me frown. Master Dick should be more careful around the possibility of cameras. Given the opportunity, the Joker would be gravely disappointed to see his Batman not in cape. And he would notice. The man has an eye for the details and is allowed the newspaper in Arkham every day, though Master Bruce suggested that privilege be taken away.

                “Some light reading?”

                “I wasn’t reading it.”

                “No?” I ask softly, taking the seat opposite him as it’s been my turn to be Bruce’s accompaniment all morning. It won’t be long before he starts to chafe at the constant supervision and wants nothing of it. For now, he still appears to welcome another presence at his side. I’ve been taking advantage.

                “No.”

                “Do you remember something sir?”

                Bruce blinks over at me and scowls, “Maybe. I know Clark is Superman, but this person—” he stabs a finger at the paper, “The Dark Knight. Batman. I feel odd about him. But I have no idea why. I don’t know him.”

                “Are you certain?”

                “What, that I don’t know him?” he makes a little choked laugh and I smirk in return, because it’s very much like him to do so, “No. I’m not certain. I could know him. Maybe.”

                “Ask Clark about it when he comes home this evening. I’m sure he can enlighten you on the situation. After all, they work together.”

                “I can see that.”

                Ah. There is a little twinge of jealous irritation in his voice now. Like he doesn’t enjoy that this ‘Batman’ is spending any time with his closest confidante. It’s an—interesting development, considering he is merely jealous of himself. It’s difficult not to simply tell him all and watch as the realization dawns on his face. But I’ve taken a hands-off approach since the beginning of this journey with Master Bruce and I have no intention of stepping into whatever it is the boys and Master Clark have been enacting. After all, it’s working.

                “Well, Miss Diana will be here shortly for brunch. Are you hungry?”

                He shrugs a shoulder, a little bit of petulance and lot bit of weariness, “Yes. But I don’t want anything sweet. I need to be careful with what I eat now that I’m back up to weight.”

                “Of course.”

                His eyes rove over the gardens with long steady strokes, then he looks up at me and frowns, “Did my mother used to like the gardens?”

                I find it suddenly much more difficult to swallow so I nod instead of speaking. Master Bruce stares darkly at the sprawling greens and the freshly mowed grass. “She liked roses best, right?”

                “Yes.”

                “Where—” he pauses, frowns and then rubs a hand over his face, “This will sound stupid, because logically, I am beginning to understand that as a full grown man the possibility she isn’t alive anymore is very strong---but I don’t remember, so, I just need to ask and it’s been bothering me these last weeks because I saw their pictures in the study and on my desk—”

                “Master Bruce,” I stop his rushed explanation with a hand, “If you take a walk out in the gardens to the far end of the property you will see a family plot where she and your father are buried.”

                There is halting bitter moment, where Master Bruce’s face is very young and very open and very pained when he hears this. And he nods quickly, ducking his head, casting his eyes away from me, doing his best to keep the sudden surge of emotion out of his face. But I’ve seen the same look so many times before, in varying degrees, that it doesn’t shock me in the least.

                It—comforts me. He cares deeply for them still. Even when his mind is a raw open wound and still unable to address all the pieces that are broken. He cares, and it is deeply ingrained within.

                “I thought that—I knew that—I had hoped they were alive.”

                “I’m afraid not sir.”

                “When did they die?”

                I sigh, my breath just barely showing in the crisp morning air as I do so. This conversation is a bit heavier than I was expecting before brunch. But I can’t keep it from him. He will go and find the answers even if I tried to keep silent on the matter.

                “They were murdered many years ago. In crime alley when you were eight. You were leaving a show and a robbery went foul.”

                Master Bruce opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Instead, he’s back to staring at the gardens, his eyes washed in watery silver, but no tears fall. It is almost worse than if he simply cried.

                “I lived and they died. Pearls—” he blinks, gripping the table, “she wore pearls. And a woolen peacoat. Dad had the scarf I bought him for his birthday wrapped around his neck, even though it was scratchy wool and I—I gripped it in both hands when he fell. My hands got all wet with his blood and I sat there for minutes, screaming and screaming. Nobody came right away. Nobody cared.”

                “Master Bruce,” I say because I don’t know how to stop the verbal memory from spiraling and I don’t want it to spiral into a breakdown, but Bruce stops me with a hand. His fingers are ice cold on my wrist and the grip is a shade too tight, but they don’t shake. They are rock steady.

                “I’m alright.”

                “Master Bruce—”

                “I need a minute.”

                “A minute?”

                “I need a minute alone. Before Diana gets here. I don’t want to be like this when she gets here. And I need a minute to be alone to do that. Please.”

                “Very well,” I scoot back from the patio table, grabbing his empty mug and the forgotten paper as I move. I’m stopped one more time by those icy fingers and this time Bruce looks me dead in the eye. Sharp, brittle grief stings me there and I brace against it.

                “Thank you for telling me Alfred.”

                “You are welcome, Master Bruce.”

               

**Diana**

                “You look good Bruce.”

                He smiles thinly at me, like he’s been told to do so, and I shake my head softly, looking away from his handsome face to where the gardens are. The air smells like mint leaves and jasmine. Like dew drops on evergreen. I inhale a deep breath of it and settle more firmly into the hard metal chair I’m sitting in to give us both a moment to get used to the others presence.

                Bruce surprises me when he is the first to speak.

                “You look good too.”

                I lift a brow and smile at him, trying for humor, “Oh? I’ve been told pony tails are the height of fashion.”

                He blinks at me, but his eyes are already snagging on my hair, “I like it. It looks nice on you.”

                Of course, he would take me seriously.

                “Thank you—” I stifle the urge to sigh when we simple stare at one another for another awkward pause then I pick absently at the omelets Alfred put in front of us. They smell delicious but I’ve no appetite. “What else is new?”

                “Not much,” he tries to eat his own food, but keeps looking up at me and then away quickly, “I’ve had more memories. And I’m handling things much—better.”

                “Less anxiety.”

                He nods, putting a bite of egg into his mouth.

                “Dick tells me you’ve started working out again. That’s good.”

                “Yes,” he swallows, then dabs at his mouth with his napkin, “I like it. It makes everything else go away for a while and besides, it feels—right. I’m certain that I used to exercise a lot before.”

                “You did.”

                I see him frowning but I don’t address it. Instead, I wait patiently for him to speak again because I’ve learned in our daily exchanges that he is far less intimated by my presence when I speak little and let him lead the conversation.

                 “I’ve remembered some of you.”

                I blink up to him and feel my heart drop steadily like floating paper in water as I watch his eyes study me long and hard.

                “I remember you like dry red wine and foot massages before bed. And you get hot with too many covers. You never understood how I could sleep with so many and so tightly wrapped around myself. We used to laugh about it. Argue a little, but not with anger.”

                My mouth feels like a desert and I move to get a drink of water.

                “I remember that I very much liked kissing you and that you liked kissing me.”

                I nod, heart slamming in the shells of my ears now, breath wanting to clog up my throat. “Is that so?”

                Bruce frowns again, “Have I upset you?”

                “No. The opposite. This makes me happy Bruce. Very happy.”

                “But you look upset with me.”

                “Because I miss you. That’s all.”

                His scowl darkens and suddenly he’s leaning over the table and pressing a pair of warm dry lips to mine. It’s a very chaste kiss and he trembles a little with fear before pulling back but I can see something dark and familiar in his gaze when he’s sitting again.

                “What—why did you do that?” speech feels nearly impossible.

                “I wanted to see if I it would help. Did—did it?”

                “It did. Sort of. Bruce—” I want to tell him that it wasn’t nearly enough and that I _need_ more but that would be the worst possible thing to say, so instead, I say the right thing. The good thing and it tastes sour coming out of my mouth. “You don’t have to do that. Kiss me.”

                “But—I wanted to.”

                I find myself frowning back at him and then am impossibly charmed when I realize he’s blushing from neck to ears in dusky pink. Unsure of himself and worried he’s made the wrong decision.

                “In that case,” I smile easily, “You may kiss me any time you wish.”

                “Really?”

                I nod, folding my hands on the table to keep from reaching for him. He still looks like a donkey on the edge about to change his mind and run and I don’t want to ruin this. “Absolutely.”

                “I—I don’t remember all of it. But I know I enjoyed being with you. That it felt good. That it was nothing like—” he glances up and then quickly away when he can see me watching him raptly, “nothing like what happened in the labs.”

                I stare at him and nod slowly. “No, it was nothing like that. We loved each other. People who love each other sometimes make love to one another. What happened to you was far from that.”

                “Right,” he nods briskly, “Of course, I just—I’m not certain how to proceed with us and I don’t want to—”

                “There is no pressure of sex between us Bruce.”

                “There isn’t?”

                I feel my brows draw low and I smile sadly at him, “No, Bruce. No pressure. I do not expect it. Not at all.”

                “But—but if we wanted to, in the future perhaps, when I remember more, would we again?”

                I very nearly toss back my head and laugh, “Of course.”

                “Alright,” Bruce nods, apparently appeased with having gotten out whatever he wanted to speak of. He seems more relaxed now when he offers me a half smile and I realize it is the first genuine smile I have been gifted in well over a year. It’s bittersweet to witness.

 

**Bruce**

 

                I see Diana everyday for three weeks.

                She comes at different times of the day. Sometimes for lunch, occasionally for dinner, and rarely, I see her as early as breakfast. There are days when she comes just to sit next to me while we read and days when she talks about the weather or what I like on my toast. Our conversations are easy for me. I know she keeps them this way, so I feel more comfortable around her.

                And it’s been working.

                I’m not afraid of being alone with her anymore. And I’m not afraid when she holds perfectly still each day and lets me press my mouth to hers. I don’t do much more than brush lips, because I don’t feel comfortable in doing more. I don’t remember enough of her for it not to feel—strange and foreign. Like I’m doing something I’m not supposed to be doing. So, I don’t go further and she doesn’t ask me to. This too, makes me trust her more.

                Every day now, there are flickers of memories that filter in through the haze of the day and every day, I am _feeling_ those memories more than I am simply experiencing them. I can picture myself doing things. I can imagine more and more what I might like or what I might have liked and it’s beginning to feel less like I’m living in a stranger’s home with his children trying to have coffee with his lover, and more like I’m living with _my children_ and trying to have coffee with _my lover._ It helps to unfurl the sometimes constant ache in the center of my stomach. 

               It helps on the nights when I wake and can smell and taste and feel the man with the fingers or the one with the clipboard and nothing feels real or right or good...

               “Bruce? Are you out here?”

               I straighten on the garden bench I’ve been sitting on and watch as Diana comes slowly into view. She’s dressed in short sleeves and jeans. Casual, comfortable and familiar. I think she used to wear something just the same often. She likes jeans and cotton. She likes bare feet on wet grass and making love under the stars—

               I blink at her, seeing the perfect picture of her and I sprawled naked beneath the blanket of stars in this very garden, laughing and whispering and not caring if we get caught by the boys—

               “Bruce?”

               Diana is standing in front of me now, hands on her hips, leaning down as if to look deeper into my eyes and I flinch, backing up so quickly my back hits the metal brackets on the bench.

               “Sorry, I didn’t meant to startle you.”

               “You didn’t—I was just,” _remembering you naked._ I can feel the heat of a blush flooding my cheeks and neck and suddenly I’m very uncomfortable and very hot. “I was just remembering something.”

               “About me again?”

               “Yes.”

                What would be the point in denying it? I’m certain that the more I tell everyone I am remembering, the more it might speed my recovery. I’ve already remembered so many flickers, I feel as though it will only take just one more good push to get the rest to come back. I just wish I knew which push that would be.

                “Do you not want me to ask about it?”

                 I clear my throat, keeping my gaze on my lap, “It’s—a little embarrassing.”

                 “Oh?” Diana takes the open space on the seat beside me and it’s a testament to how far I’ve come that I don’t want to scoot further away from her. She feels natural beside me. It feels—right. “We used to share everything Bruce. I doubt I don’t already know.”

                 “You know.”

                 Her eyes, sapphire blue, grin at me, “You don’t need to share. I think I can guess.”

                 I sigh, picking at the seam of my jeans, “I wish it were easier to talk about with you. But I don’t remember everything, so it feels a little—scary.”

                Her smile is warm in response, “Loving someone is scary.”

                “Yes,” I agree, swinging my legs, letting the toes of my shoes dig into the garden’s gravel, “How long can you stay today?”

                “As long as you want. It’s Saturday. I’m not needed anywhere.”

                “Would you help me with something?”

                “Of course, anything.”

                I nod sharply, pushing to a stand. “There is something hidden beneath Wayne manor and I want to know what. Would you help me get inside?”

                Diana’s gaze jumps to mine and I feel my stomach do a slow roll. I don’t like her expression because I don’t understand what it means. Why doesn’t she want me to see beneath the manor? What’s down there? What has everyone been keeping from me? It would be easier if I did not also remember so many months of being lied to and hurt within the confines of the lab. Because then I wouldn't assume everyone was trying to lie and hurt me, as a first instinct. But I do remember and her response sets off alarms in me. I struggle not to back up and put distance between us. 

                “I should call Clark first.”

                I frown at her, folding my arms across my chest, “Why? I thought you all wanted me less dependent on him.”

                “This is different. You may need your support person—in case memories become too strong.”

                “Memories?”

                “What’s beneath the manor is an integral part of you Bruce. It will most likely cause you stress.”

                “What if it doesn’t?” I ask softly, “What if it just helps me remember the rest of everything?”

                Diana watches me a moment, then nods slowly, “All the more reason to call Clark. He will want to be there for you. I do not think the red scrap you keep will be enough.”

                My hand is already in my pocket where I keep it hidden and I flinch at the mention, shame making me want to cower. I don’t understand why this has been happening more frequently. But I want to keep the scrap hidden. I don’t like anyone knowing I still have it and still use it. Especially Diana. I don’t want her to know, most of all. Alfred tells me it is likely because she holds such an important place in my life and I worry about her opinion of me. It feels like an understandable explanation. But I still wish I didn’t feel this way when caught.

                Diana frowns at me, something like concern wrinkling her brows, “It doesn’t bother me that you keep it with you.”

                “I—I don’t like to talk about it. Especially with you.”

                “Alright,” she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a phone, already dialing Clark, “I won’t bring it up again,” she pauses, “Clark? Yes, could you come meet us in the gardens?”

                A flutter of wind, the rush of fabric, and Clark is standing beside Diana with ruffled hair and his shirt untucked. I look between the two, having a momentary flash of Diana wearing a tiara and Clark’s cape billowing out behind him.

                “Hey B.”

                I nod at him but stay silent. Diana will explain.

                “He wants to see the cave.”

                Clark’s brows rise, his dark blue gaze suddenly searching mine and I shift awkwardly on my feet. “Are you sure?”

                I shrug, “I think so. Diana said it might upset me, but I want to know. I’ve been wanting to know for a couple of weeks, but I couldn’t figure out how to get down there on my own. Or else I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

                Clark laughs, “Of course.”

                Diana extends her hand to me, palm up and I take it without reluctance, winding our fingers together the way I remember she likes it. I do nothing when Clark takes my other hand and I’m left to walk between them as if I am the child and they are my parents. I like them beside me. It feels good. So I don’t tell them to let go.

                We head for the cave together. I pray I am as ready to see this as I think I am.  


	6. Chapter 6

**Clark**

I am so accustomed to holding his hand now that I miss it immediately when Bruce pulls away and presses his palms to the moist walls of the cave with reverence. His posture is loose and expression open, but I can see his thoughts are far from steady.

                From the moment we stepped inside these hallowed walls, Bruce’s entire demeanor changed. Hope, vibrant and bright and shiny prickles in my veins and I’m doing my best to stop it. To temper it with reality. Because there is a strong possibility that this will mean nothing, and Bruce will merely have more information about who he used to be. But won’t remember it.

                Even still, this feels sacred. It feels pivotal. Batman is the true face of Bruce and seeing it, feeling it and experiencing it, might be what he needs to click everything into place.

                I want this to work. I want this to be it for him. He deserves to remember. He deserves to know.

                But right beside the hope, is the fear and I try not to let that take me over either. Because it’s as unhelpful as the hope. None of this is under my control or Bruce’s or Diana’s. We have no idea what will happen. But it needs to happen.

                He is already slipping away from me and Diana. And it will only be a matter of minutes before the reality of everything hits him. The fearful part of me is ratcheting higher and higher. I’m terrified we will lose all the progress he’s made in the last months because this was too much, too soon.

                “It’s not what I expected,” Bruce murmurs, striding deeper into the cave, angling his head up to stare at the ceiling with open curiosity, “are there bats up there?”

                “Yes,” I answer honestly, wondering if they might frighten him as they once did when he was a child. But he simply moves on, too eager to see more.

                I let him explore without censure and keep near enough that I am present but not in his way. It’s difficult not to step in when he climbs the gangplank and heads straight for the armory. His eyes flicker rapidly over the assortment of weapons and gear, face a mask of fierce concentration. It is almost exactly the expression of the old Bruce. So much so, it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s remembering. I want to—but stop myself because I don’t want to interrupt.

                He brushes over Batarangs and grapples. Gas pellets and tension lines. But no recognition flickers on his face. Only intrigue and study. He’s a sponge sucking up the information as quickly as he can get it.

                He’s so focused and interested. He’s so—childlike in his assessment of the cave that I force myself to stay silent and just watch. When he stands in front of the computer displays and frowns, I clear my throat to speak but he beats me to it.

                “Who uses these? What are they for?”

                “Cases. Experiments. Documenting. You used to use the computers all the time. But so did the others who worked with you.”

                “Worked with me?” Bruce parrots, eyes slipping down to the well-worn keys. There is an old coffee ring on the console and Bruce traces it with a finger, his lips compressing into a white line, “What did I do?”

                “You—”

                 Diana interrupts me now, her voice serene and cool as the misting from the falls, “Let me show you something else Bruce. It might help you.”

                Bruce glances between us, almost the way a child might be asking permission to go with a friend and nod my assent without thought. Bruce quietly steps away from the consoles and takes Diana’s hand as she guides us to where a panel of black lockers lie. She says nothing as he stares at them and we both wait, for a beat, allowing him the opportunity to remember or not how to open them. When he reaches with trembling fingers to brush the casings and trace the seams of the doors, he hesitates over a keypad then presses a thumb flush to it.

                Apparently, he remembers that much.

                The panels glide open with a pop and then hiss and then we are all three staring at a set of empty suits. The cowl looks menacing beneath the ambient light of the cave sensors and I watch Bruce’s face with rapt attention, afraid of his reaction.

                He looks confused at first. Confused and then—shocked.

                “I am—he is—”

                I nod, “Yes, you are the Batman.”

                “But—” Bruce blinks again, then scrubs a hand down his face, “But I—I don’t—” his hands don’t seem to be able to sit still because they flutter uselessly at his sides then draw up to touch the roughened material of the suit. The moment the pads of his fingers graze it, his spine goes rigid and he sucks in a panicked breath.

                I brace, already reaching to help him, but Diana stops me.

                “B,” I say quietly, watching as the color leaves his face in sickening speed and he leans heavily into the suit’s casing, “B, talk to me.”

                Bruce shakes his head, one tight jerk, then gasps softly. I can’t stop myself even if Diana wants me to. I have to help him. I respond immediately, doing what’s always worked in the past as I reach for his hand and hold tightly.

                Bruce jerks as if he’s been stung and a low cry of alarm breaks the seam of his mouth. He rips his hand from me, stumbles back and almost falls down the stairs before sitting abruptly. He’s already dipped to put his head between his knees without being told and I know he’s having a panic attack but there is nothing I can do but stay near to ride it out with him. Quick frightened breaths fill the cave and Diana and I remain frozen, unsure of how to proceed or what to do next. His response is exactly why I wasn’t certain of bringing him down.

                It’s exactly why I’ve avoided it till now. Cowardly or not, I hate seeing Bruce like this. I hate seeing him hurt and afraid. It does something awful to my insides.

                “Clark—” Bruce pants, groaning as his body seizes up tight and the muscles of his jaw flex, “Feels like my heads going to explode.”

                “It’s alright. You’re going to be alright. Just breathe through it.”

                “I’m—I’m try-trying.”

                I nod, moving near enough I can brush a hand down his spine if he wants it. He doesn’t ask for me to touch, so I don’t. Especially not after my last attempt.

                “Breathe in,” I offer carefully, voice as monotone and delicate as I can manage though it wants to shake, “Breathe out.”

                Bruce blinks through a film of tears at me, then nods jerkily, “Breathe in—” he makes a choked sound of agony and I flinch, reacting without thought by touching his shoulder. He screams.

                “Bruce, I’m sorry, it was just me.”

                “No, no, no,” Bruce abruptly switches from a man trying to keep control of his emotions to one lost in a horrifying nightmare. His pupils are so black and big they’ve swallowed up all the color in his eyes. He’s left me. “Don’t touch me again. Please. Don’t touch me.”

                “I won’t touch you.”

                “Clark,” Diana whispers, her voice choked with pain. I had almost completely forgotten about her presence. “He doesn’t mean you.”

                Bruce starts rocking on the hard metal flooring, his eyes frantic, tears soaking his t-shirt, “I’ll do anything you ask. Anything you ask. I won’t fight anymore. I don’t know anything, I swear I don’t. I won’t do it again. Anything—” he murmurs, voice dropping to a strangled whisper, “Anything, anything, anything.”

                I have to look away. I have to step back. My instincts are screaming to grab him and chase away the demons. But that won’t help because the touching just makes it worse but that’s what feels right and so I have to step back and breathe. I have to take my own advice and struggle through a few cycles of ignoring Bruce’s pitiful pleas and just work on keeping myself calm.

                It shames me a little, to realize that I’m not nearly as strong as I want to be. It makes me angry at myself that after all this time, I slipped up and did the wrong thing. I made it harder on Bruce than it needed to be. And it makes me feel so much guilt it’s stifling.

                When Bruce quiets down to soft whimpers and his body goes slack, I risk looking at him again.

                Diana is standing close, but at enough distance to be deemed non-threatening. She looks as lost and as weary as I feel. We don’t speak for a handful of minutes. We merely wait, and we watch. It’s torture.

                Then Bruce shifts, loosening his death-grip on his knees and he peers up at me with a stricken look on his face. His eyes are luminous and white-washed gray, and his skin looks so pale it could be called sickly, but there is a flicker of _something_ in his eyes that has been missing for so long I almost miss it.

                An intelligent spark of wit and genius and calculation that can only belong to Bruce Wayne.

                It’s Bruce. It’s _our_ Bruce.

                “Bruce?” I ask, my voice shaky and tight. He blinks at me, reaching with unsteady hands to touch his wet cheeks with muted shock and then relief. Desperate relief.

                “Yes,” he says roughly, “Yes Clark, it’s me. It’s—” his expression crumples, and a soft sob that’s weighed down by a million memories and a million pains comes out of him, “It’s me again.”

                I know I should wait. I should ask permission. I should do anything other than what I do, but I can’t seem to make my body obey in time. I’m already across the floor and wrapping him into me. I’m already crushing him so tight to me, I know he would normally complain or try to smack at me, but he doesn’t do any of those things. He goes limp against me, sucks in a weary breath, then cries harder. It’s a different kind of cry now. I can hear it.

                This one is heavier with knowledge. This one is from grief. From bone deep exhaustion and heartache. It hurts worse than any I’ve ever been witness to and I cannot stop myself from sinking with him.

 

**Dick**

 

                 

                “Bruce, I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

                “It is.”

                “But Clark said it might not—”

                “Clark, is not my nursemaid anymore. I’m fine. Let’s go.”

                I watch Bruce warily as he stalks around the gym and rolls his shoulders and neck, but don’t see any other way around this. Other than outright refusing, and that isn’t something I’ve ever been that great with when it comes to Bruce. Especially like this.

                Besides, I’m not really sure that this isn't something he _needs_.

                I can see he’s antsy. There’s an angry sour energy pouring off of him in toxic waves and he’s desperate to get rid of it. Exercise is a good way to help. But this—sparring—might bring up stuff neither one of us wants to deal with. Bruce might think he’s fine, but it’s only been a couple days since his memory came back. And even though he seems almost the same, we all know he’s not.

                He has flickers where he outright loses himself and abruptly becomes a terrified screaming little kid again. And no amount of pretending that doesn’t happen, is going to make it not true. We’ve got a long way to go still. No matter that Bruce wants to hit the ground running at five hundred miles an hour. He always wants to. That’s no different. That doesn’t mean it’s going to work this time.

                “Bruce—”

                Bruce grinds his teeth, lifts his fists in a boxer's stance and glares at me, “Shut the fuck up, or get out. I don’t need a lecture. I need—” he grimaces, something like a shiver skating down his spine, “I need to hurt someone. Or to at least try to.”

                I shake my head, but find myself obliging. I understand. I do. So, I let him.

                We spar for an hour, trading blows, circling and grappling. It’s tensely controlled violence beneath a veneer of Bruce’s rage and I wonder if he knows how close he is to snapping, or if he just doesn’t care.

                He’s slower now than he was a year ago. And that makes him mad.

                His punches aren’t as effective, and his kicks are weaker. His mind, though apparently mostly back, doesn’t seem to be able to compute at the level is used to, because he lags behind me in almost every attack, struggling to keep up with the onslaught.

                And that makes him even more angry.

                I try to avoid damage. But in the end, it’s a fight and we both know it. So, when he starts to let loose a stream of curses and grows erratic, I take advantage and knock him on his ass. His lip is split, and it bleeds in a thin crimson dribble down his chin to ruin his gray t-shirt. His hair is plastered with sweat and he’s gasping like a fish, but his eyes scream murder.

                And I’m ready when he launches himself at me.

                I hit him a few times, dodge his counter-attacks too easily then promptly take him back to the mats. He growls in frustration like a pinned devil, squirming and hissing, and spitting. There’s a brief flicker of something dark that passes in his eyes, I recognize about a millisecond before he tries to go for my jugular with his teeth and I’m forced to bap him in the nose hard.

                His head snaps into the mats, a sickly thud splitting the air, and he goes still under me.

                I sigh angrily, pushing up to the balls of my feet to work out the nervous energy and stare in muted shock when I see we have an audience. Of course, it’s Clark.

                “What. The. Hell.”

                I scowl over at Clark as he comes charging into the room and gathers up Bruce like he’s some goddamn stuffed animal in his arms. Except that stuffed animal is lethal and was asking for it. Literally.

                Bruce jerks awake with a feral growl and plants a fist into Clark’s face before either of them can move. Then he howls. Because it was Clark’s face, and nothing meets that face without getting the shorter end of the stick.

                “Sorry,” Clark says quickly, trying to grab at Bruce’s hand to examine it. But Bruce, as I suspected, is having none of it, because he starts cussing up a storm and scrambling out of Clark’s lap. He’s furious. And just beneath the fury, I can see the thread of something like fear. He didn’t like waking up to being held like that.  

                “Get the fuck off of me, Clark.”

                “Jeez, Bruce, I said I was sorry.”

                “Fuck,” Bruce hisses, shaking his quickly swelling hand as he guardedly eyes us both. When his gaze finally lands back on me and I merely lift a brow, he surprises me with a small stiff nod. Apparently, the man recognizes he had it coming. Thank goodness for small blessings.

                Clark doesn’t look so forgiving. With Bruce pissed at him, he turns his anger on me and I almost flinch when that alien blue gaze lands heatedly in my direction. “What were you thinking Dick?”

                “Me? He wanted it.”

                "That's ridiculous Dick. He couldn't want for you to beat him up."

                "I didn't beat him up. We sparred. People get hurt when you spar. Especially when one of the opponents has been out of commission for a year."

                Bruce growls thinly at Clark and I and paces nearer, "I'm right here. You don't need to argue about me like I'm not."

                Clark, apparently misses the way Bruce is looking at him, because he completely ignores Bruce and keeps arguing with me. He can't see that by ignoring Bruce in this moment, it's only making matters worse. It's only digging the hole deeper. 

                "I'm right here," Bruce tries again, voice softening into lethal rage. "I don't need you to hover."

                "I'm not hovering Bruce. I'm looking out for you."

                "I'm not a child Clark--I--"

                Clark bowls over him again and I very nearly step back and let Bruce at him. Because I'd be a little pissed too if I was talked over like that. I'd feel a little agitated and flustered and small. All of which look to be things Bruce might be feeling at present. Bruce is shaking with anger now and I can see he’s close to losing that thin strap of control he’s got going for him, but there’s no way to warn Clark, because he too, looks like he’s about to lose it. Clark is still too busy trying to chew me out to notice. It’s a train-wreck with nowhere to go.

                “I told you it was a bad idea, Dick. We talked about this yesterday. I told you—”

                “Clark!” Bruce finally bellows, “Fucking lay off. He’s right. I wanted it. I wanted to fight. I wanted to fight because it felt good. I don't need you to watch out for me and my every move I don't want you breathing down my fucking neck—” his voice breaks, and the room suddenly feels too tight and small and I watch with dwindling hope as Bruce loses the battle he was waging and anger swiftly turns to grief. Bright red rage, to big fat tears. With blood dripping down his chin and his right eye swelling up, he looks pretty rough. But like this, with him behaving in a manner that’s so ‘not Bruce’ even though it’s him again, it makes me want to cower. Because to some degree Clark is right. I should have said no. He wasn’t ready for this.

                But Clark is wrong about this too. He needs to let Bruce make his own choices now. It's time. 

                “It felt good.”

                “It’s not safe," Clark says tightly, emotion flaring in his wide blue gaze, "We don’t know how you could react.”

                “I’m fine,” Bruce croaks, swiping angrily at his cheeks and chin. Blood smears across the back of his knuckles and my gut tightens to the point of pain. “I know you’ve been making all my decisions these last months because I couldn’t. But I can now. And I’m fine. I wanted it.”

                “Bruce, I’m not trying to step on your toes. I’m trying to protect—”

                “I don’t need it anymore Clark. I don’t want it. Stop trying to control me. Just stop. Please.”             

                But they both know that isn’t entirely true. Bruce _wants_ to not want help anymore. But he still does. He needs help when the walls close in and he panics. He needs help still when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out that scrap of Clark’s cape and tries to pretend nobody knows he still has it.

                He needs help still. The memories might be back, but the man is still broken. However ugly a truth that is to admit for all of us.

                “Bruce,” I try softy, getting his attention on me and off of Clark who looks suddenly sick, “We should get you cleaned up.”

                Bruce stares at me for a solid minute before answering and when he does, I can see it costs him not to snap at me too. He wants to. If the tightening of his fists and the glower on his face is any indication, but he won’t. Because he’s trying to rein the control back in.

                “Fine.”

                “Do you want me to—”

                “No,” he snaps, stalking around me and ignoring Clark altogether as he makes for the showers. Two days ago, somebody would have needed to stand outside the showers till he was finished and dressed. So, he could be guarded. Today, he’s too damn stubborn to admit he would probably still like the lookout.

                I’m not going to even bother fighting with him over it.

                When we’re alone and it’s just me and Clark, I risk a glance and see he looks about as bad as he did a few minute ago. Like someone kicked him in the stomach. In a manner of speaking, yes, someone did. Bruce.

                “Clark, you alright?”

                Clark blinks at me, then frowns, “I’m—I’m fine.”

                “He’s just having a hard time.”

                “You think I don’t know that?”

                “That isn’t what—” I inhale softly then pinch the bridge of my nose, “He’s just feeling boxed in and frustrated with his body right now. He’s used to being able to do more. Be more. Combined with the memories and the flashbacks and the panic attacks, it’s making him a little—bitchy.”

                Clark snorts, part-humor, part-heartbreak, “Yeah. A little.”

                “He just needs space.”

                Clark looks pained by the idea and I understand. He’s been giving Bruce one on one care for close to two months. For all of that to suddenly stop and go abruptly sour is a big change, especially for someone as gooey as the man of steel.

                “I get it.”

                “And you’ve got to let him make his own decisions. Even if he gets hurt,” I raise a hand to stop the argument I can see Clark gearing up for and shake my head, “Even if it seems stupid to you or to me. It gives him some control and he’s had no control over anything for a long time. He needs to get confident again and not feel inept. Right now, that’s all he feels.”

                “So, let him get beat up because he _needs_ it? Let him sweat out a panic attack alone because it’s _good_ for him?”

                I swallow thickly, not too comfortable with the idea either. “If that’s what he needs, then yeah. You’ve got to let him do it his way. He’s not the other Bruce anymore. He’s himself again.”

                “Yeah, I’m well aware,” Clark sighs, “God, this is hard.”

                “Yeah, yeah it is.”

**Bruce**

With the majority of my memories returned to me, one would assume that I would then easily return to a highly functional state. Back to a similar place I was a year previous. 

                One would assume.

                My memories feel strong and sure and for the most part whole. It’s been so long, so many weeks and even months now of my straining to fill in the gaps and move on, that now that I am here, and the memories are complete, I am disheartened to feel so damn stuck.  

                I remember more than I want to.

                With the good and the pleasurable, I have also recovered everything before the sudden memory loss within the labs. The pieces that originally caused me to lose myself and slip deep within. And they are nothing short of horrific.

                I have dreamed of the man with the fingers that I know—a balding, slightly overweight, middle-aged tormentor who I could crush in a hand-to-hand confrontation without even breaking a sweat—every day for the last week, since the cave. I walk through rooms and feel his breath on my neck and shower with the niggling sensation of eyes peering down on me.

                I know there is no one there. Logically, I am more secure than I have ever been. Clark has assured me of this. As has Diana. My own security systems and backup protocols also maintain an impenetrable wall of protection around me. But I’m still—afraid. And it’s humiliating to realize. Though absolutely unavoidable.  

                I wish it wasn’t the case. I wish I didn’t wake after every dream of _him_ in a cold sweat with terror lodged in my throat. I wish I couldn’t taste his skin on my tongue or feel his fingers on my legs or smell his sweat in my nose. I wish I couldn’t hear the scratch of the pen on the paper as the one with the clipboard records everything I am doing and all of my reactions.

                I wish I couldn’t hear their laughter and then the groans and my own breaking voice. I wish it wasn’t all so fucking clear, so fucking poignant that it makes me flinch whenever I am startled by the crystal-clear recall.

                But I can. And it is.

                Now that it’s all back, it’s almost too much to bear. I am struggling once again with the day to day tasks simply because of the bombardment of flashbacks and memories. And it infuriates me. It forces me to my knees and every day I find myself ending it the same way. Beating my knuckles till they are bloody against a heavy bag and working myself till I ache more on the outside than I do on the inside. It’s still not helping.

                And I don’t know what will help.

                I push shaking bloody knuckles under the running faucet of the kitchen sink and scrub fiercely at the stains of red there. It stings peripherally, but my mind is only distantly present. I can’t seem to keep it present for more than a handful of minutes at a time before it slips away, time and time again. A fact which should be more of a concern than anything else but isn’t.

                I see Dick walk into the kitchen, head straight for the fridge, then pause to look at my hands with a frown and say nothing. I don’t address him, and he doesn’t address me. I’m grateful he understands my silence. I’ve not spoken much since the full memory recall and I know it’s been a bit of a jolt to everyone. But I’ve run out of things to say. My words feel empty and strained. My mouth, clumsy and broken.

                Besides all that, Dick and I understand one another. After the sparring a couple of days ago, he and Clark have gone silent about my activities. They offer me worried looks and chastising frowns when I disappear over and over to the gym and work myself into a frenzy, but they don’t stop me.

                Clark and I haven’t talked. I wish I could say I regret some of my actions and words. But I don’t. I was too angry and to some degree still am. I don’t want to be coddled anymore. I don’t want someone to hold my fucking hand. I want them to get out of the way, so I can try to rebuild whatever is left. However pitifully small that might be.

                “When I wrap my knuckles with both paper tape and gauze, it seems to pad them a little better.”

                “I like the pain,” I say stiffly, turning off the water without looking up. Dick offers me a towel and I take it without speaking. We remain quiet for a handful of minutes longer, then he sighs with a long drawn out weariness that I suppose is my fault. No, I know it is. I’ve been worrying everyone in the manor for so long, I’m surprised they aren’t sick enough to kick me out.

                 “Diana called.”

                 “I know.”

                 “And?”

                 I shrug a shoulder, “And I’ll call her back. I’ve been busy.”

                 “Brooding.”

                 I clench my teeth to keep from growling and settle for a soft hiss of breath. “No. I’ve been—working. I may not be clear to get out on the streets yet, but I’ve been working intel on the open cases you left pending in the drive.”

                 “B, you know you shouldn’t—”

                 “If you’re going to tell me I shouldn’t be working, I’m going to choke you.”

                  Dick’s eyes widen, and he steps back, “Fine. At least let me see what you’ve come up with, yeah?”

                  I offer him a hard look, one tempered by my stubbornness and the slippery feeling of not being needed then finally nod. “I want you to open a file for me that’s been encrypted.”

                 Dick frowns, “Encrypted? You can’t hack it?”

The slippery feeling grows, and I swallow, “I didn’t want to—I didn’t want to overstep. It’s not my file. But it’s on my computer. It’s—” I struggle not to sound unsettled and fail entirely as Dick starts leaning nearer as if to catch me from a fainting spell, “It’s related to my kidnapping. Clark’s encrypted it.”

                “Then you should ask Clark, B. Seriously.”

                “No.”

                “B,” Dick huffs, “This isn’t a good idea. You should talk to him.”

                “Not yet. I’m not—no. Will you help me with the file encryption or not?”

                Light blue eyes narrow on gray then finally give in. “Fine. But at the first sign of trouble, I’m tattling on you to the boss man.”

                “Fine.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Bruce and Diana chapter. I'm sorry about the slow update. My mom had surgery and then I was out of town. It's been a crazy week. Thanks for your patience :)

**Diana**

                I’ve been calling for three days and have received no answer. I gave him time. I said nothing. I did the right, _good_ , thing.

                I _can’t_ anymore. Physically, emotionally, mentally. I _can’t_ give him what he needs.

                I’ve been sitting on the other end of the phone, waiting, and hoping and _praying_ Bruce would call all on his own without any prompting, but that doesn’t appear to be happening. And I can’t do this anymore. I have to see him, and we need to speak. Whether or not he wants to.

                The afternoon feels heavy and wet as rain slashes over the windshield of my car and I squint through it, to see where I’m headed. I’ve come here a thousand times. Hell, I lived in this house only a couple of months ago. And he remembers.

                _God’s Bruce, you remember. Why haven’t you asked for me? Why haven’t you called for me?_

                I’m trying not to be angry. I’m trying not to be hurt. But I can feel both emotions like hot needles in my chest, painful and feeding one another, madly spurring the other on until they grow like a monolith of pain and suffocate everything else.

                I put the car in park and just sit for a moment. I breathe through my nose and try to calm the storm of emotion but only manage to see Bruce’s face in the caves. I see the tears and the pain and the memories all rushing under his skin and I want to rail at everything. I want to seek vengeance for the injustices done to him. I want to find Luthor and make him pay the way I would see fit and not the system of which Bruce respects. I want to grab Bruce, to curse at him, to scream that he let me in to help him, because it’s my right after all these years.

                I want and I want and I want.

                I want so much it physically hurts and I’m not certain if coming here, like this, is a good idea. I feel a victim to my own snapping control but have no willpower to stop it.

                I can’t. I need to speak with him. I need to speak with him now.

                I get out of my car like an automaton and feel the numbness creeping along my frame until it encases me ankle to neck as I slip into the servant’s entrance off the kitchen. I say nothing to Alfred as I pass, though he tries to speak with me. I don’t want to be stopped. I don’t want to think about what I’m going to do, and I don’t want anyone to talk sense into me. No matter that I will likely undo weeks of trust-building with the man I love. I feel—out of control. Burned up. Shredded.

                When I hear his heartbeat, strong and steady and sure, I am already moving in its direction without being aware of it. I seek out the pulse of it, scarcely aware that in my haste to get here, I didn’t wear shoes. Scarcely aware that I am soaked to the skin and that the cold clings to me, whispering secrets that should still my movements. Whispering, _‘slow down’, ‘think first’,_ and _‘be wary’_.

                I don’t heed the warnings. I keep moving. And I find my target.

                Bruce is in his room, sitting at his desk, pouring over paperwork in thick binders and printouts. He’s wearing the readers I made him purchase and has a frown marring his face, but he looks well. He looks perfectly able to make a phone call. To send a text or an email or fax. To do _anything._

                When I walk right up to his desk without stopping, he doesn’t jolt in surprise, but rather stiffens slowly, incrementally, as if he was prepared for this very argument. It manages to rankle me further.

                “Diana.”

                I blink at him, vibrating with needs. Vibrating with wants left unfulfilled and a heart spread wide and bleeding and I want to crumble in front of him. I want to cry more than I realized, and it makes the anger burning in my eyes, red-hot.

                “Is that all you have to say to me, Bruce? My name?”

                He blinks up at me from behind the readers, puts down a binder he’d been studying and then pulls off the glasses, slowly. Very slowly. “What should I say?”

                “Anything.”

                “Anything…” he repeats whisper-soft, his eyes falling down to the pages of notes he’s been scribbling on, over whatever has caught his attention and I grind my teeth.

                “Yes, Bruce. I’ve waited. I held my tongue. I said nothing even though I knew you remembered, and you didn’t—” my voice breaks, a shimmering flutter of weakness and I crush it, standing taller, straightening my spine into steel, “you didn’t call.”

                “No.”

                 “Explain.”

                “I—I can’t.”

                I shift on my feet, feeling a sick twist of familiarity at the threads of it on my bare feet and a sudden wave of homesickness overcomes me. I’ve been living in Clark’s fortress for months. But the manor became my home years ago. When Bruce didn’t remember, I had to leave. I was turned away from the one place I wanted to be. And I feel its loss like I do Bruce.

                “Why?” I snap, jerking my chin up in time to see him jolt, “Am I not good enough for you now? Do you no longer love me?”

                “That’s not it. Diana, I needed time—”

                “Time.”

                “Yes,” he swallows visibly, as the color in his cheeks fades to gray and he backs up a step, nearer the windows at his back. All the subtle signs of an animal warily watching a predator. I don’t like it. “I didn’t know how to be around you. I still don’t.”

                “We were lovers. But we were also friends. Companions. We meant everything to each other. And we shared more than our bodies, Bruce. We shared our souls. I would never demand more than what you could give me.”

                “I couldn’t be sure—” his eyes squeeze shut, a tremor wracks his frame, “I didn’t know what to expect.”

                Almost at once, I want to lash out at him. I know it isn’t the right thing. He is a victim. He did not choose this and the reality of what was done to him would of course make him leery. He is traumatized and broken.

                But he is my lover.

He is my partner in everything and it has been so very long. It has been so long of nibbling at the scraps and using every ounce of my patience to even be in the same room as him. How could he not believe that I wouldn’t harm him? How could he think I would demand more of him, before he was ready? If he was ever ready again?

                “Did you think I would throw myself at you the moment you saw me again?”

                His eyes flash to the floor, but I can see he had worried. He had wondered. He had feared. “No.”

                “You think less of me than I knew.”

                “No, Diana, that isn’t it. I was worried about how this would affect us. I was—” he stops, breaking off like he can’t swallow, and I want to go to him and comfort because it would be as natural as breathing. It would feel good to do so now. But I’m still angry and he sense it. It’s only making him more frightened of me. And making the bitterness in my mouth grow.

                “You were afraid of me.”

                Bruce offers me a nod. Only one but it is enough. It hurts more than I expected. It hurts more to have it confirmed.

                “I would never harm you. I would never take what isn’t offered. Just as you would never. You know me, Bruce. You loved me.”

                His eyes are sharply on mine. A wounded pewter gray, soft and abundantly familiar. _Mine._ “I still love you.”

                Hearing him say it, after so long, has the effect of erasing my anger and replacing it with sorrow. I feel impossibly weak now. I feel—hollowed out and so weary I wish I hadn’t come.

                But I will never be sorry for hearing those words. For knowing he means them.

                Bruce still loves me. It is enough. It is. It must be.

                “I—” I swallow, heart in my throat, “I wish—”

                When I don’t finish, Bruce steps tentatively around the desk and closes a little of the space between us. I almost back up and give him space, because that is what I would have done a week previous. I would have given him space. I would have given him anything. But something in the last hours has broken in me and I can’t move. I can hardly breathe. All I want is to feel him against me. I want to hear his heart beneath my ear like I used to when I woke before him and we were just skin on skin beneath the film of predawn light.

                I want _something_ from him so very badly that I am afraid that I am broadcasting it on loudspeaker and will frighten him away for good.

                “You wish what?”

                “I wish I could help you.”

                It isn’t what I wanted to say, but it’s true. I wish I could. I wish I knew what to do to make it better.

                “Diana,” he scrapes out, risking an even closer proximity to touch my arm. His fingers are like ice on my feverish skin. It sends delicious electricity to my stomach. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

                “Too late.”

                He flinches. I wish I could regret speaking so honestly. But it feels good to say it. It feels good not to be so careful with what I say.

                “I didn’t mean to.”

                “I know that.”

                And I do. But it doesn’t change that the damage has already been done. He didn’t call for me. He didn’t want me when the memories came back. Regardless of knowing why, I’m not sure how to swallow such a bitter pill. I’m not sure how to lessen the blow to my heart.

                There is a part of me that wants to run now, despite his fingers on my arm. But I can’t make my legs work.  

                “When I remembered—” Bruce is whispering now, like it’s too hard to speak and I have to hold my breath to hear it all. To hear every hitch and nuance of his speech. “I remembered everything. All the reasons why I forgot in the first place. Everything they did to me. And it felt like—like everything had just happened again. Like I could go back there at any moment and the torture would resume. I still feel like—I’m on borrowed time. Like this isn’t reality and it’s another sick game they’ve come up with to fuck me up. I don’t know how to even think about—us, right now. I don’t want to hurt you Diana. Please, hear me on this. I still love you. I feel it overarching everything else. I swear to God, that I do. But I’m struggling—I’m not doing well.”

                We stare at one another, a broken man and a broken woman, for long stuttering breaths and I feel like I almost imagine him leaning nearer. I feel like I imagine him biting his lip like he does sometimes before he breaks a rule or gives in.

                But then he’s grabbing onto me and holding me so tightly I can feel his heart racing through the press of fabric on his chest. He’s all around me, his smell and his strength and his panic. It’s both frightening to realize this contact terrifies him and heartbreaking. But I can feel both in the embrace. I can taste both, sickly sweet, on my tongue. He wants this—he hates it.

                Bruce sucks in a breath likes he’s starving for oxygen then buries his face in my neck and drags in deep lungfuls and I’m too frozen in place by what’s happening to do much more than stand still. I’m stunned into a dreamy submission as he soaks me in, getting his fill of me like this is what he really wanted all along; when I know it isn’t. I know he didn’t want this today. I know I surprised him and that he’s on the edge of something dark and unrepentant. Something he doesn’t want to stain me with.

                His skin is icy cold against mine and unyielding. His fingers trembling so badly at my back but locked into place by sheer force of will. Everything about his posture reeks of a stubborn refusal to give in. Of pride and arrogance beating its head against the fetid stench of scarred up terror.

                I love him more for it. I love him more for this. For his willingness to do this at any cost to himself.

                It brings hot tears clawing up my throat and spilling down my cheeks and I have to push myself away before a sob finds its way out. He’s given me more in this moment, then I feel that I deserve. More than I ever anticipated.

                Bruce stumbles back and sits heavily on the edge of his desk, looking dazed and confused, and I swipe madly at my cheeks to dispel the evidence of his hug. I don’t want him to twist the tears into more guilt. Because he would. In a heartbeat. The man is better than anyone I’ve ever met at carrying guilt which does not belong to him.

                “Thank you,” I stammer out the pitifully small words and watch as Bruce comes back to himself but can’t stop shaking. He’s looking at me with an expression I can’t quite understand. Somewhere between need and desperation.

                “Bruce?”

                “I—I need—”

                “What?” I ask softly, but it comes out hoarse. He could ask me for the moon and I would find a way to give it. “What do you need Bruce? Tell me. I will give it.”

                “You,” he grates, “You-you to hold me. Like that again. I n-need that again,” Bruce’s voice has dropped to a whisper, as he wraps both arms around himself and starts to shake harder.

                “What?”

                “Please Di.”

                Words can mean so many things. They can breathe life or death. These bring me infinite peace and uncontrollable gratitude. With the sharp burst of yellow-gold melancholy. Bruce doesn’t beg. He rarely says please.

                These words are both.

                He blinks hard and I can see that I am not the only one so strongly affected. He is drowning in emotion and feeling. But the strongest of them is not fear. Whatever is going on inside his mind, he wants _me_ and any comfort I might offer, more than he wants me away. More than he wants to give into the dark tangle of his torments.

                A surge of gratitude fills me like a tidal wave and I bite back a curse as I close the distance again and hold him fiercely to me. He clings back, every line of his frame crushing into mine and I’m falling with him. I’m falling into the black misery he feels as a helpless passenger and it hurts here. I feel his pain and seclusion. I feel his terror and his agony. His desperation. His love for me. It chokes me till the tears run free and I’m sobbing into his shoulder, soaking his skin with the salty evidence of heartbreak. Of things that cannot be undone.

                The bleakness of what he must be feeling is so overpowering, I cannot imagine his pain.

                “Bruce,” I’m whispering words into his skin, clutching him too tightly, leaving bruises in alabaster skin, “I’m so sorry.”

                “I’m going to be f-fine,” he’s muttering over and over. A mantra. For him? For me? I don’t know. I just want him to stop. Because he doesn’t need to be. He doesn’t need to ever be fine, if that’s what it is. _This_ is all I wanted. To be here, with him, like this. To hold him when the floor falls out and the world crumbles.

                It soothes the aches and pains of the last months with a balm that only Bruce could have offered. I desperately want to kiss him. I want to make love and forget everything else. To erase the unerasable and kiss away the shame and the scars.

                Even though I know that won’t be possible. Not for a long time. Maybe not ever.

                I still want it.  

                “God,” he grabs fistfuls of the back of my shirt and presses his nose behind my right ear, “I missed your smell. I missed your skin.”

                Despite the tears clouding my vision, I laugh and startle him accidently, “I missed you too, Bruce. I missed you desperately.”

                Bruce stays near, despite the way I can feel the worried tremor wrack his frame. Even though my hands on his back make the muscles over his spine jump and twitch. He stays. He leans nearer. He just keeps breathing me in and I keep letting him.

                It’s the best day I’ve had in so very long, I never want it to end.

**Bruce**

                I knew she would come. I knew she wouldn’t let me hide forever.

                But I didn’t expect to feel the way I did when she stomped into our bedroom with that look on her face. Anger, hurt, and pain. I couldn’t have mistaken it for anything else. I couldn’t—not when I’ve known her for so long and so well. Not when she is the woman I intended—intend—to spend the rest of my life with.

                I’d been stunned at first.

                Because she stole my breath and made my chest _ache._ I missed her. I needed her. I wanted her. Then, right then, on the floor, on my desk, in _our_ bed. Against the wall. I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel her skin on mine and remember everything we were and had. I wanted to fucking _forget_ what I’ve become without her.

                But then I’d felt fear. Cold, unrelenting, unforgiving.

                Her anger triggered something dark and unwanted in me. I couldn’t react the way I wanted. I reacted exactly as I feared. I didn’t see Diana—I saw _him_.

                And then came panic. Hard. Icy. Painful. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.

                And the words were failing me, and she wasn’t understanding the way I wanted her to. Because there had been reasons for not calling. There had been a plan. I’d made a decision about it. I’d wanted more time to figure out how to approach her and everything I was feeling.

                God, the shame.

                Shame and anger and pain. I didn’t want her near me. I didn’t want her to see what was inside me.

                But that hadn’t worked. Because she showed up. Like I knew she would. She came and she quietly refused to let me do what I wanted. And I—I was clinging to her. I was grabbing onto her, through the waves of unrelenting panic and she was there. Like she always is. She held on and suffered through it, she didn’t let go. She didn’t let me, let go.

                I shift on the bed and feel Diana move with me, an arm carefully extracting itself from my waist as I move to sit up.

                We ended up in our bed. Fully clothed, on top of the covers, amidst a storm of snot and tears. It wasn’t how I pictured our re-union during the long bitter nights when I was in the lab. But I love her for it. I love her more than I ever thought possible.

                “I thought you drifted off.”

                “No,” I answer in a whisper, though it’s only late afternoon. It feels like we're in a secret, hidden, cave behind the blinds and as long as we speak softly, the spell won’t break. “I’m awake.”

               “The rain is really coming down.”

                I look to the window and frown, “Is it? I can’t hear anything.”

                She shifts, and the mattress gently groans in protest. I try not to flinch when she wraps both arms around my waist and rests her chin on my shoulder. Because it would have been a natural thing to do not so long ago.

               That feels like a lifetime ago.

              “Is this alright?”

               “Yes.”

               “Don’t lie to me Bruce,” her arms try to release, and my hands automatically move to stop her, my grip almost brutal on her skin. I don't want things to be different right now. I  _need_ them not to be.

               “No. No, don’t.”

               “Alright.”

                We fall silent again. Her listening to the rain, me listening to the sounds of her steady breathing by my ear. It’s a familiar sound, one that slows my pulse back to normal and lulls me gently into the cocoon of safety we entered when we first climbed into bed. It makes me feel hazy enough I almost, almost lay back for a nap in earnest.

                “What were you working on?”

                “Huh?”

                Diana makes a humming sound by my ear and it sends a shiver down my spine. “When I came in, you were working. It looked important.”

                My eyes flicker over to the desk by the windows and a cold ball of lead steals any ounce of peace I had before.

                God, I don’t want her anywhere near what I was working on. _I_ don’t even want to be near it. Just filing through the papers and seeing it all, in black and white, makes my skin crawl and feel dirty. It makes me want to bathe.

                The memories feel like needles under my nails. Like a thousand paper cuts being rubbed by salt or lemon.

                It brings me back to what I was thinking and feeling and doing before Diana came over. Back to what Dick helped me decode from the cave computers.

                I couldn’t have been more surprised to find what Clark had hidden in the file. I couldn’t have felt more—betrayed. I couldn’t have felt more devastated to find that Clark had been sitting on the identity of the men who’d spent ten months of hell torturing and abusing and destroying me.

                He’s known for months. He’s known who did this.

                Not Luthor, but the men he paid. His lackeys. The ones he gave to do the dirty work.

                The man with the fingers that I know, is no longer a nameless face. He is no longer only identified by how his fingers feel. How they taste. How they look.

                Dennis McMillin.

                Revulsion tightens my hands into fists and acid bubbles up the back of my throat. It’s an effort not to let the rage color my voice. It's an effort to sound human.

                “It’s—” _the man with the fingers that I know,_ “an ongoing investigation.”

                “From the labs.”

                “Yes.”

                “Will you tell me?”

                The first word on my tongue is no. The second is maybe. What comes out is neither. “Yes. Later. I need to speak with Clark and to—process a few things first.”

                Diana inhales a soft breath, “OK.”

                “I want to share. It’s just difficult.”

                “A lot has happened.”

                “Yes.”

                Everything has. I was gone for almost a year. I forgot who I was. I lost myself. And now that I’m found, I don’t feel like all of me came back. I’m—broken. I’m not who I was. I don’t know if I’ll ever be the man Diana knew. I don’t know if I can.

                “I’ll still love you Bruce. Even if you told me everything. Even if I saw everything. I’d still love you.”

                “I—” it’s good to hear. It’s good to be told again. But I don’t know if I really believe it. The things done to me—the things I did to survive—I never want anyone to know. “I know.”

                “Does Clark know about what you're working on?”

                “Yes,” I swallow past the betrayal made thicker by the disgust, then, “No. We haven’t spoken about it yet.”

                She flexes, and I feel the muscle in her arms on my stomach, “Did he do something?”

                “Yes.”

                “Do you want me to—”

                “No. I just need to work through this. He had his reasons. I’m sure of it. But I need time.”

                “You’re angry with him. Hurt.”

                My answer is as raw as I feel. “Yes.”

                I can feel Diana tense as if she wants to say something more and has to struggle not to. I wish I could speak freely about all of it without the sickly shame and fear or the betrayal. I wish I didn’t have to think about it at all. But that isn’t a helpful line of thought. I need to move forward. I need to find McMillin. And then—

                “Bruce? Are you alright?”

                “I’m—I’m fine.”

                I won’t kill him. I won’t. I wouldn’t do that.

                _I want to. I want to feel his breath die on my face. I want to wet my skin with his blood and saturate my ears with his screams._

_I want him terrified. I want him dead. By my hands. Because of me, for me._

Fuck. God, holy fuck, I hate this feeling. I hate how easy it is to want someone else dead. Brutally murdered as violently and painfully as possible. 

“I’m here.”

                I breathe past a clench of muscle and bone. Past a frightening rage that makes everything hazy in reds and blacks. “You’re here.”

                I sound robotic and distantly underwater.

                “I’m with you Bruce.”

                “With me,” I breathe raggedly, try to clear the red and only manage to do so in little bitter sips.

                The desire to murder frightens me almost worse than the memories.

                But Diana is holding me down, keeping the insanity at bay. A balloon tethered to the ground by a strong, firm, grip. And I desperately need her to.

                We remain upstairs, in the bedroom that she had to leave and never should have, till the night creeps in. It’s not as hard as I imagined, to fall asleep with Diana at my back. Her arms warp around me, tight bands of immovable steel, but they hold me together rather than imprison me.

                She’s there. With me.

                I try not to let go.   


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little more of a sedate chapter. I was going to include another POV, but decided it was going to be a way too long of a chapter once I did because I don't want to break off in the middle. Next chapter, we get to see McMillan and Thames.

**Clark**

 

                He knows.

                I _know_ , that he knows. And we still haven’t talked. He’s done exactly what Bruce would have done before, and has shut me out entirely. It shouldn’t surprise me. It shouldn’t feel like I’m being punished unfairly for something I had no choice in. But it does.

                I had a choice. I made a decision. And Bruce has every right to be upset about that choice. Though he doesn’t know all the ins and outs of that decision and he certainly doesn’t know the entirety of that choice.

                I stand by what I did with McMillan and Thames. I believe in it. But I wish I didn’t feel everything so strongly that it threatens to suffocate me.

                Lois tells me to give it time. To let it breathe. Alfred says much the same, in his usual polite rigidness. This is not a foreign concept. One does not befriend Bruce Wayne without understanding the concept of patience.

                The distance between us has been palatable. Every room feels permeated with the discontent. They all know something isn’t right between us. But no one wants to dig in and find out. I don’t blame them. Where Bruce and I are concerned, blood can fly during an argument. We can be so opposite in our thinking and ways, it becomes a war.

               Everyone says that Bruce just needs time. But no one really knows what I did or why he needs it. Well, no one except maybe Dick. Dick knows, because he helped Bruce break the coding I weakly put on the files.

                I never intended to keep the information from Bruce forever. I never thought to hide it from him permanently.

                I did it for his own good. I did it to protect him. Temporarily. Until Bruce could handle it.   

                I understand that he’s mad. I understand that he feels hurt and even betrayed. But he doesn’t understand. He can’t know what I was thinking and why I did what I did in keeping Dennis McMillan and Howard Thames from him. Bruce doesn’t know the cost of having kept it to myself all these weeks. He doesn’t know how it’s messed with my mind, in a twisted game of second guessing. How it’s made my stomach turn into sick knots every time I’ve gone anywhere near the fortress these last months.  

                I’ve spent the last two days walking on eggshells, waiting for the inevitable blow up. Bruce and I have always had our disputes over the years. We see things differently in a way that can complement, or clash. Bruce keeps things grounded and logical. I add a different perspective and the heart. When we meet somewhere in the middle, our decisions have historically been solid. Good. Undisputable.

                But I made this decision without him. I made it all on my own because he wasn’t there to help me. He was _lost_ and I had to do it by myself.  

                We’ve been the backbone of the JLA for as long as its been running. Diana is the glue and the warrior. She’s the courage. She helps grease the mechanisms that make us work. I’m hopeful that speaking to her now will smooth things over between us.

                She always has in the past. It can work again, just like before. It has to.

                When Diana walks into the kitchen and strides directly to the breakfast nook where I’m sitting, it’s easy to rise and embrace her like usual. Diana’s hugs are firm and all-encompassing. She smells like her favorite oils, lavender and bergamot. And faintly of Bruce. It’s a comfort to know Bruce and Diana are doing more than speaking. That they seem to be clinging tighter, rather than breaking apart. Their separation these last months has been a strain on everyone.

                “Clark, you look tired.”

                I shrug, not bothering to deny it, as we separate enough for me to brush a kiss on her cheek. Customary, light, and friendly. We’ve been greeting each other in such a fashion for as long as I can remember. I let myself be grounded by the familiarity and ease of her company. We take our seats opposite each other in the nook and both smile absently. Alfred took the liberty of making pompous cucumber sandwiches to go with the tea he’s brewed. I’m glad of it now, because it gives me something to do with my hands. But I’m not hungry.

                I’m nervous. And I have no idea why. Diana and I aren’t fighting. Bruce and I, aren’t even really. He’s not spoken to me since we squabbled over the sparring in the gym. How could we fight, if we never manage to cross paths?

                He’s dutifully avoiding me. And no one is better at that than the Bat.

                “How’s Bruce?”

                “He’s doing better.”

                “That’s good,” I say softly, picking apart one of the sandwiches with numb fingers, “I haven’t spoken to him in a few days.”

                Diana’s eyes are wide and searching. Gentle. “I heard you two had a little—tiff, a couple of days ago.”

                “We did. But that isn’t why he’s not speaking to me.”

                “He’s not speaking to you?”

                I nod slowly, “No. He’s not.”

                “Why?”

                “That’s—” I stop, take a short breath, then blow it out through clenched teeth, “I probably shouldn’t say. I might make things worse by breaking trust.” We watch each other for a breath, pretend to eat, then I try again, frustrated with my own restrictions. “Suffice it say, Bruce found out about some information that I’d been keeping to myself. He’s—angry about it. Probably feels a little betrayed. And he hasn’t given me a chance to explain myself. Yet.”

                “Clark,” Diana reaches across the table and holds my hand. I can feel the callouses on her palms from swordplay, marking her the warrior and it brings the flicker of a smile to my mouth. “I’m certain you have done the right thing. Bruce is in a bad place. And you know how he moves. Slowly. With caution. His mind can be his greatest strength, or his greatest weakness.”

                “He’s a strategist.”

                “The best.”

                I smile, tracing the rim of my coffee mug, feeling my stomach twitch, “Do you think there will ever be something he decides is too far and won’t forgive me for?”

                Diana considers me for a long moment, “No. I think he will always forgive you. He loves you.”

                It’s not nearly enough coming secondhand, but it makes me feel a little better. It makes the ache under my breastbone, just a little less pronounced. “Well, I love him too.”

                “He knows. He’ll talk to you. He’ll let you explain.”

                “Are you sure?”

                Diana sips on her tea, looks quietly out the nook windows out to the gravel drive that’s more for show than it is for use, then nods firmly. “Yes. I’m sure. He’s been upset and wrestling with what he found for days. He’s needed to process it all alone. But he’ll want answers. He can’t help himself. And from what I gather, the only one that can give him those, is you. When that happens, he’ll give you a fair shake. Bruce prides himself on his ability to make decisions without emotion drowning out reason. He’ll come to you. Give it a few more days.”

                “Alright.” I don’t feel much better. But it’s something. It’s more than I deserve. “How are you two? I see you’ve been staying at the manor again. It’s strange, how we can all three be living here at the same time and hardly see each other.”

                Diana laughs, “It is. And yes, I’ve been staying over for the last couple of days. It’s strained between us and difficult at times to navigate. He’s a different man to some degree. So, we are—” she swallows thickly, “Relearning each other. But the love between us is strong. The bond even stronger.”

                “You’ll be fine.”

                “Yes,” she levels me with a cobalt gaze and her smile burns a little brighter, a little more genuine, “Yes, we will. Eventually. We are determined.”

                “That is something neither of you lack. You two are the most determined people I know.”

                “Yes,” a soft satisfied smile, “And are you staying? Now that everything is settling down a bit?”

                I know it’s a fair question. And it’s one that I’ve been rolling around for a few days, struggling for some reason to reconcile with. I _miss_ our home. I miss Metropolis in the mornings and sharing the familiarity of our two-bedroom apartment, with just Lois and Jon, where we trip over each other to get ready in the mornings. There is something sacred and preciously intimate about sharing a home with only the two of them, that I miss dearly.

                Lois has been more than an angel about all of this, she’s been a saint. And I can see that the long time away from home has cost everyone. Even Jon. He misses his room. He misses his ‘space’. And so, do I.

                But I know it isn’t time. Not until we—deal with McMillan and Thames. Not until Bruce and I discuss what he wants. For better or worse. I’m willing to suffer the consequences. I’m willing to compromise everything I believe in, to give Bruce what he wants. Or needs.

                Even if it means murder.

                “For a little while longer I think.”

                “Until everything between you two is settled.”

                I nod, “Yes. Bruce has some decisions to make and I want to be there for him, when he does.”

               

**Damian**

“Do you have a headache, Father?”

                Father looks a little pale, but I’ve seen that expression on his face before. I’ve seen it countless times in the gym, on the mats, beneath a barbell with just a touch too much weight. I understand it. He’s chasing something, fighting off an enemy. And it is within.

                “No,” Father dips again on the bars, arms quivering, stomach muscles straining as the weights on his ankles brush the mats below. He’s doing too much weight—pushing too hard. When he finishes three more reps, he collapses and lies limp beneath the dip bars, breath panting from ill-used lungs. Father will need more conditioning if he is to retain the mantle any time soon. He is not prepared for the vigors of it yet.

                “You should stretch, Father. Before the acid builds in your muscles and makes them weaker.”

                Father blinks open one eye at me, and groans. “Could you help me up?”

                I snort, “Would you help me, if the positions were reversed?”

                I think I hear a fairly uncomplimentary retort, but it only makes me smile. He knows it is true. He would not help me either. Sharing the gym, watching Father push himself, is like a falling into a dream. A very good one. It comforts the weakest parts of myself that are ridiculously sentimental and soft.

Father, is still Father. And I’ve missed him. I’ve missed him dearly.

Despite nearly being starved to death and losing his mind. Despite having to claw his way back, and the future setbacks I understand will still handicap him, my father is still the Batman. He is just as powerful, if not more so, and I could not be more proud to share his genetics. To be his son. He is a god among men.  

                “Grayson told me that you would like to return to patrol next week. Do you think that is wise, Father?”

                Father is halfway to the coolers where we keep the water when he casts a scathing look over his shoulder in my direction. “I don’t recall asking for your advice Damian.”

                “You didn’t. But as current Robin, you would be returning to duty beside me. I would need to depend upon you.”

                Father chokes on a mouthful of water, “Excuse me?”

                I pause for a long time, letting him drink, trying to sort the words so they will come out appropriately. I do not wish to cause any tension between us. But it is something that needs to be addressed. And quickly, if Father thinks he will be returning in the condition he is exhibiting. A force to be reckoned with or not, my first priority, is not Gotham. It is him. I want him safe. Traipsing into the underbelly of Gotham is as good as a death wish. I won’t allow it.

                “I am concerned you would not be ready.”

                “I got that, Damian. What I don’t get, is what makes you think, that it’s any of your goddamn business?”

                Father’s tone is so cold, it bites. On the verge of anger. On the verge of retaliation.

                I shrug, trying not to feel Father’s anger like a stinging slap and failing miserably. I have never been good at standing beneath his disappointment or upset. He doesn’t see that it hurts. But I am just as breakable as the others. Even if I do not wish to be. Pitiable? Yes. Despicably weak? Absolutely. Human? Unfortunately.

                “Drake told me you had an—episode outside the study.”

                If there were any air left in the gym, it sucks out and leaves everything suspended. If a nail were to drop, we’d hear it. I resist the urge to squirm or to relent. I’m doing the right thing. We both know. Deep down, he understands my concern is grounded. He will forgive me this overstep.

                Father freezes, something like guilt flickering in his gaze, then he looks to the floor. I don’t like it. “That was a few days ago.”

                “Alfred said you had another this morning. Over no apparent reason.”   

                His head snaps up, insult marking his eyes a dark gunmetal, “That’s not true. It wasn’t that bad and—” his jaw snaps closed, and I can see the muscles flexing, “I can’t believe I almost defended myself to my son. My _son._ I’m the adult Damian. And lest you forget, I’m the Bat. Not you. Not anyone else. No matter how long I’ve not been able to fill those shoes. If I want to go back on patrol, then I’m going back on patrol. If you don’t feel safe at my side, then you can hang up the cowl.”

                “Father—”

                “Damian, not now,” Father snaps, and I can see he’s holding something back. Something that doesn’t look like anger, but a lot like pain. Embarrassment. Sorrow. It helps to soothe my own natural inclination to strike back. It helps to make my words softer and full of compassion when they manage to make it past my numb lips.  

                “I did not mean to hurt you, Father.”

                “You didn’t.” Too fast. Stilted. Raw.

                I did. We both know it. But Father and I are very similar. And we do not like to admit, let alone be caught, with any sort of weaknesses. Weakness equates failure.    

                “I would never willingly risk your life, just to be back out on the streets, Damian.”

                I swallow past the quickly swelling lump in my throat and try to sound nonchalant. But I’m anything but. “I understand.”

                “No, Damian, I don’t think you do. I want to be back out, doing what I know. But I would never, ever, risk everything without being ready.”

                I nod again but can see that he isn’t getting said what he wants to say. I understand his frustrations acutely. Often, what comes out of my mouth, is never exactly what I intend to say. It is never as specific as I was hoping in conveying what I mean.

                “So, you will not return to duty next week.” Light and unaffected, not a glimmer of condemnation in the words. It takes an effort to maintain eye contact.

                Father’s eyes flicker over me and hold on mine for a long weary breath. “No. I—I’m not ready. I wanted to be. But I’m not.”

                “Then we have nothing to discuss.”

                I make to leave, because I need a moment to collect myself, but Father stops me with a big calloused hand. It’s warmth and size are familiar. The callouses may not be as harsh, but the skin is the same. The little scars hashing his knuckles, remain unmoved. It’s these unchanging details that make the tension in my frame loosen. Because Father, is still my Father.

                “Thank you, Damian.”

                I frown up at him, “For what? I upset you needlessly. You had already come to the conclusion you were not field ready.”

                “For worrying. For caring. I don’t always make it easy.”

                I shrug, “No. But neither do I. It is understandable. Being cared for is—difficult.”

                “Yes,” Father sighs, tugging on my shoulder till I stumble into him, “Yes, it is.”

                Father does not often initiate contact like this. I am much the same. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy it. But more, that I don’t know how to ask, or even to take such strong shows of affection. But I like it. I always have. I always will. Having Father surround me with his warmth and his strength and his smell is the most grounding thing I can imagine. On my bad days, on the days I forget that I am human and make mistakes, or the days where I feel too much like what my mother wanted me to be, I think of Father’s hugs. And they soothe something deep and primal within me.

                I will those feelings to Father and hope that he gets them, because I want more than anything to be of a help to him. I want him to see how much he matters to me, without saying it. Because words are so much harder to frame correctly.

                We stay like that for a long time. And later, when I think about the embrace, I don’t think of it as a hug. I think of it as sharing strength. As giving a hand up.  

                   

 

**Tim**

 

                Bruce is subtle about it. Because he’s Bruce. But I’m well aware, that he’s working up to asking something of me. I’m just not sure what.

                He lurks on the periphery of whatever I’m doing, keeping himself near, but not overly there. And I silently let him, knowing full well that it’s part of his process. Part of how he works through new information. Which means he’s probably working a case and wants my help. Only, we don’t have many he could be working on, so my interest is piqued. More than, actually. I like a mystery. I like puzzles and twisting my brains into puzzles to sort through them.  

                So, when Bruce finally catches me on my way to the cave with a thick binder tucked under his arm, I’m more than eager to be of some use. More than eager to dig into what sort of mystery he’s been picking at.

                Until I see what’s in the fucking folder.

                Then I feel like someone has sucker punched me.

                The files are alphabetized and obviously decoded. I can see the tracing identifiers from Dick using _my_ hacking software and I start sifting through the documents like they’ve got the plague. Crime scene photos, if you will, of the labs in the Himalayas. Throat tightening pictures of Bruce’s living space and the ‘tools’ they used to make it hell for him. J’onn’s medical reports of Bruce’s condition when found, the starvation, injuries, and even the infestations.

                It’s all in black and white. Or pixelated color that makes my mouth go dry and my stomach want to heave. Because it’s not just anyone.

                It’s not someone else’s injuries I’m reading about. It’s not a stranger’s blood I can see smeared all over what looks like an operating table.

                It’s Bruce’s. Bruce, the man I call father. Batman. _My Batman._

                I can see Bruce’s cramped notes in the margins of the pages. Places where he’s added things. He must have been through this binder over and over. Seeing everything through the filter of a thousand unanswered questions. And my stomach rolls.

                “Bruce—what is all this?”

                “My case.”

                “I—” my fingers brush over the carefully printed and compiled pages and I feel sicker, “I didn’t even know you had all this stuff.”

                “It’s an open investigation, Tim. Of course, I have it. The men who are responsible haven’t been found. The case isn’t closed.”

                “Luthor is sitting in the supermax at Blackgate”

                “Luthor is not the man,” Bruce’s teeth clench viciously, “the _men_ who hurt me. Not face to face, anyways. I want them caught.”

                “Caught.”

                There is an inflection I don’t mean to let leak through that hints I don’t believe that’s all he wants. I wouldn’t blame him. I’d understand completely if he wanted them dead. And that’s a little frightening.

                Bruce lifts a brow, but I can see that his hands are shaking. He’s not nearly as calm as he wants me to think about this. “Yes caught. And punished. By the justice system.”

                “And you think I can help you.”

                Bruce crosses his arms, “Maybe. I’ve gone over all my notes a few hundred times. I’ve used my usual sources to try and find them, but they ghosted a couple of days before my retrieval from the labs. It was like they were tipped off.”

                I swallow, glancing down at the files to start flipping through again. The glossy photos of the labs have me stopping to stare again, and I quickly look away when I see Bruce flushing. “I can look at these alone.”

                “No—no, I need another person on this. I could use a fresh set of eyes. There’s something there. I’ve just missed it.”

                “Bruce, there might not be. Guys like Luthor’s, might have been taken out before we came. Even if they weren’t, it’s likely they knew we were coming and have gone deep under cover. We may never find them.”

                “I can’t believe that,” Bruce’s hands fist, “I refuse to believe it.”

                It’s on the tip of my tongue to keep arguing and help him see reason. I don’t want his hopes higher than they ought to be. But I can’t do that. So, I don’t.

                “OK, I’ll do my best. I’ll look everything over, give it a thorough study and tell you what I think in the morning. Hopefully I can come up with some new ideas about where to start.”

                “Good. Thanks, Tim. This—this means a lot to me.”

                “Of course.”

                Bruce turns away, already ready to slip back into the shadows of the manor but I can’t help but stop him one more time. We haven’t really spoken and I want to hold onto him for a just a few more minutes.  

                “Hey, wait.”

                “Yeah?”

                I bite my lip, consider not asking, then just go ahead and do it. “Do you remember everything from before?”

                His eyes go from curious to flat in a heartbeat. In a breath. It makes my chest _squeeze._ “Yes.”

                “From when you were scared—”

                “Yes, Tim. I remember.”

                “OK. I just—I want you to know that it didn’t change anything for me, you know? About how I feel about you. I don’t see you as less or anything.”

                Bruce watches me for a frighteningly long moment, then finally nods, “Thank you.”

                “Right. I just uh—wanted to say that.”

                There’s a flicker of a smile, brief and more precious than it ought to be to me, but I see it and it makes me smile back. He reaches forward, grips my shoulder in a hard brief squeeze, then let’s go.

                “You’re a good son Tim.”

                My grip on the binder turns biting and I shift uncomfortably, “Th-thanks.”

                “Let me know what you find.”

                “I will.”

                I head straight to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. I’m going to find a lead in this file if it’s the last thing I do.


	9. Chapter 9

**Bruce**

I wake sometime around four in the morning to the sound of my own panicked murmurs. For a moment, a breathy frightening moment, I think I’m back in the labs and that the darkness which surrounds me is from the pit. That my freedom and everything after, was just a dream.

Then I see the outline of the furniture. The wingback chairs by the fireplace. The armoire, thick and sturdy and elegant even in the dim lighting of the nightlights I haven’t had the heart to remove just yet. The heavy drapes that are pulled closed to block the impressive shine of a moon at the end of its cycle. And my breathing slows, incrementally, steadily. The rapid thrum of blood in my throat carefully edges back to normal and I find myself fumbling in the dark for the scrap of Clark’s cape in my nightstand drawer. The dream feels too close to care about needing it. The fear, just on the cusp of my consciousness, threatening to pull me back under. So, I don’t care that I still use it.

                Not right now. Maybe later, when the sun comes out and I remember who I’m supposed to be.

                But that isn’t now.

                When my fingers find the smooth edges of it at the back of the drawer, relief couples with something like desperation and I jerk the fabric to my chest, clutching it so tight my knuckles ache. My eyes burn, and I let them, sucking in soft measured breaths to try and stave off the panic. To prevent the full loss of self, but it’s a close thing. It’s so close to taking me over.

               The man with the fingers—McMillan—he feels close. He feels near enough I swear I can hear his raspy voice in my ears. I swear I can feel him nudging inside me, holding me down, cheering my screams on.

               He’s behind my eyelids, waiting to torment and to hurt me. To make me forget again and again and again. And right beside him is the other one. The man with the clipboard. Thames.

         McMillan and Thames. Not unnamed wraiths in my sleep. Men. Just men. Easily beaten and broken men, like myself.

         I need to stop thinking about them like they aren’t. I need to see them for what they are and remember they are as beatable as the next. I will find them. I will make them pay.

         “Bruce?”

_Clark. Please go away._

_Stay. Come in. Make the voices and the fear and the ugliness run away._

         I stiffen at the voice. A voice which I have avoided for ten days and wish that just hearing it didn’t make my fear less. I wish that he wasn’t so incremental in making me feel safe, because I’m still angry with him. I’m still—stuck. Not ready to hear why he did what he did. How he could do what he did.

          I’m not ready. But I—I need him.

          I know Diana is across the hall. So close now that we are repairing everything between us. She would come and lie down with me and it would have nearly the same effect as it would with Clark. But Clark—he’s the one who stayed with me for those couple of months when I didn’t remember who I was. He’s the one who I was counting on to save me when I slowly started to fade away beneath the punishing blow of torture and desecration and—

         “Bruce…please.”

         I suck in a tired breath and shake my head. I wish I didn’t need him. I wish I could put this off for longer. But I can’t.

        “Come in, Clark.”

          My door opens softly, creaking only at the farthest arc as Clark slips inside with practiced ease. In the slant of the nightlights, Clark looks eerie. Just a touch not himself and I have to force myself to remain seated as he draws nearer and then finally takes a seat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips, Clark keeps his distance, and I relax incrementally.

           “Nightmares again?”

           “Yes.”

           “How can I help?”

            We could do what we’ve done before. He could wrap me up in his arms, help me fall back asleep and we could both pretend that I’ve not been avoiding him and that I don’t know he’s been keeping painfully pertinent information hidden from me. We could do that. We could.

             But I don’t think I can.

             I watch his eyes dip to the scrap of cape, tightening at the corners, making him look like he’s actually aging, and for a moment, I consider telling him to leave. The anger, white-hot and needling, is too bound to the hurt. And I don’t want him here. But I—

             “Why did you keep it from me? Why didn’t you tell me that you knew who they were?”

             That isn’t what I thought would come out of my mouth. It’s not at all. I don’t want to do this right now with the dreams still so close, but it seems I’m not going to be able to stop myself.

              Clark’s expression doesn’t change. His posture doesn’t tighten, nor does he look away from me in shame, as I might have expected. It does something to me. It makes me angry. Angrier than before.

             “Why Clark?”

             “It’s complicated Bruce. I wanted the chance to explain to you and to discuss what should be done.”

             “What should be done?” I hiss, voice going thin with rage but not quite a yell, “How is that even a question? You know what should be done!”

              “Bruce—I—you have to understand. When I found you like you were, and it was so awful—I made a choice to wait till you—” Clark breaks off and his mouth starts to wobble, looking perilously close to crying, “I wanted to wait till you remembered who you were and you could decide for yourself what you wanted. I wanted to give you that.”

               The scrap in my hands feels warm, almost too warm now but I don’t let it go. I hold it tighter, willing myself to remain calm. Willing myself not to reach across the space and strike out. Because I want to. I want to hit Clark. I want to hurt him for hurting me. For betraying me. For lying about something he had no right to lie about.

               “What are you talking about Clark? You’re not making any fucking sense.”

               “I will. Please, just, let’s take a breath and calm down.”

               “I don’t want to fucking calm down, Clark!” I snap venomously, dropping the piece of cape in favor of grabbing Clark by the shirt to shake him. He lets me. “How could you keep that from me? How could you break that trust? When you—” my voice breaks in half, spilling pain and hurt between us, and it makes me angrier, “When you were there for me more than anyone and then you knew the whole time who they were? You knew. You fucking _knew_.”

               “Yes,” Clark whispers, eyes flooding with tears, hands coming up to grab mine that are still fisted in his shirt, “Yes I knew. I found them after we got you home. I was so angry about what they’d done, I knew I had to find them. I got Luthor put away. I did the right thing. I did. But then I found them—the others and I couldn’t—”

               “You couldn’t what?” I growl, shaking him hard again, hard enough that a tear falls down his face and marks him more human than he’s ever looked. I freeze at the sight of it. At the sight of my best friend crying as I’m shaking him mercilessly and suddenly I feel the hard slant of fear curdle in my stomach. Clark wouldn’t have. He _couldn’t_ have. He’s too good. Too pure. He’d never do such a thing. Not even for me. I wouldn’t want him to. I wouldn’t want him to destroy himself like that for me. “Clark, what did you do?”

                “Bruce, you have to understand—”

                “Clark,” I say again, urgency cluttering my thoughts, making me suddenly aware of the fact that I’m shaking and I’m on the verge of crying too. “What did you do? I won’t be angry with you. But I need to know. What did you do? Tell me you didn’t. God, please tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”

                Clark’s eyes widen, and he must know what I’m suddenly so afraid of because he quickly tugs me into his chest and holds me tight. Far too tight. But I’m too grateful all at once for the embrace and for the grounding sensation of it to say otherwise.

                I needed this. More than I needed anything else these last days.

                “Tell me Clark. Tell me you didn’t.”

                “I didn’t kill them. Bruce, I swear I didn’t.”

                Relief comes, hard and fast and sure, in my middle, and I grab Clark’s back fiercely, burying my nose in his shirt, willing myself not crumble and start bawling like a child.

                “It’s alright Bruce. It’s OK.”

                But it’s not. I know it’s not. And it makes me want to fall apart worse.

                He smooths his hands down my back trying feebly to comfort me, but I’m still on the edge and I need to know. I need to know what he’s been keeping from me and why he would lie about it all. Clark seems to sense this, because he shifts, the prequel to the answers and takes a long soothing breath.

                “I have them Bruce.”

                For a moment, I don’t think I heard him right. I think I made the words up. Then the sentence chants over and over and over in my mind, a strange sort of discordant melody that makes gooseflesh rise like needles on the back of my neck.

                I stiffen, alarm, relief, fear. I don’t know what causes it. I don’t know why there isn’t just one emotion. Why I’m not overjoyed at Clark’s words. But I’m not. I’m—confused about what I feel. On the edge of panic.

                “You, have them?”

                “Yes,” Clark nods, keeping his hands on my shoulders as if to steady me. “I found them. And I imprisoned them in the Fortress. They’ve been there since the beginning. I’ve been waiting.”

                “For what?” I whisper, voice sounding strangled. “Why didn’t you give them over to the police Clark?”

                Clark’s eyes are dark glistening obsidian. His face is a mask of determination. “I was waiting for you to decide if you wanted to kill them or not. If you wanted them dead.”

 

**Clark**

 

                    Bruce doesn’t say anything for so long, I’m tempted to make him. I’m tempted to demand he say something. Anything.

                But he just stares at me. His face a mask of stunned animal, on the verge of hurt. But not quite there. At the line of panic, but again, not quite over it. He’s frightening me.

                “Bruce,” I try softly, rubbing his shoulders, trying to get him to look at me again. But he doesn’t even register I’ve spoken. His eyes are locked on the bed, the discarded piece of my cape between us, like a pool of spilled blood, and my gut clenches hard at the sight.

                I thought this was the right decision. That Bruce would understand when I explained and be glad that he’d had the choice. That the option was given to him. But now—I don’t know. I’m so unsure of myself that I want to take it back. I want to walk back out those doors and pretend like I didn’t just tell him the heavy snarled secret I’ve been keeping for months.

                Bruce has always been so strict about taking lives. He’s been so careful. So, have I. It’s part of what makes us so similar. We treasure human life to the utmost degree. But this was different. Wasn’t it? It had felt different.

                I couldn’t hand them over to the police. I tried. But it didn’t feel like nearly enough. It didn’t feel like enough punishment. And there was a part of me, no matter that reason dictated Bruce wouldn’t want this, that was certain he’d want them dead. He’d need them to be. Because I want them dead. Because I feel like they need to be.

                I know it’s selfish. I know it isn’t right. That hasn’t stopped my feelings from being like they are. And I’ve wrestled endlessly with the moral dilemma, waiting patiently for Bruce to recover enough to help me. One way or the other.

                “Bruce, please,” I whisper, dipping my chin to try and catch his eyes. He stirs a little, blinking sluggishly up at me.

                “You have them in the Fortress.”

                “Yes.”

                “They’re secure?”

                “Very,” I answer stiffly, watching as he blinks a few more times, swallowing thickly.

                “I need—” Bruce closes his eyes and reaches for the piece of cape. It’s between his fingers and being stroked in the next moment and something about the sight, makes my chest tight. He can’t hate me, if he still uses the cape. He can’t. “I need to see them.”

                “Alright.”

                I knew that might be the case. He would need to think. To analyze and be sure of what he wanted. Seeing the men behind bars, so to speak, will help solidify his choice. It will help him feel more comfortable about whatever he ends up deciding.

                “You kept them all this time, so I could kill them?”

                I shrug a shoulder, looking away from the odd light in Bruce’s eyes, “Yes. It—made sense to me. If I wanted them dead, I could only imagine how badly you might. It felt right to let you decide. To allow you a choice.”

                “To murder.”

                My gaze jerks sharply to Bruce’s and I see him watching me carefully, his eyes wide and watery.

                “If that’s what you wanted.”

                “You would kill them for me?”

                I swallow down the lump that wants to form in my throat then nod. “Yes.”

                “Clark—” Bruce shakes his head, starting to rock a little on the mattress. Whether he is aware of it or not, I’m not sure. But I can feel the tension coming off of him in waves. The upset. There is something foul and paralytic about not being able to help. About being the cause of his distress.

                “Foolish, stupid—” Bruce grits out, rocking harder, “God, I can’t breathe.”

                “It’s OK, I’ll—”

                “No,” Bruce snarls, batting my hand away, audibly grinding his teeth, “On. My own. Need it, on my own.”

                “OK.”

                I watch him struggle. I watch him work through the panic and the tremors alone and I wish to God he would let me help him. But this is _Bruce_. This stubborn man beside me, is the one I practically grew up with. He’s the man I’ve worked countless missions beside and have nearly died with. He’s nothing if not strong-willed and seeing him battle his way through whatever he puts his mind to, no matter how foolish I think it is, is what makes him, him.

                When his breathing slows again, and the rocking dissipates, I risk reaching for his hand and Bruce lets me take it. His skin is ice cold but he’s not shaking. He’s steady again. I’m thankful for it.

                After a long moment, Bruce sighs, soft and weary. Child-like. “Thank you.”

                I frown at him, “I didn’t help you.”

                “Not for that,” he shakes his head, “For finding them. For keeping them at the Fortress. For—caring enough to give me a choice,” he surprises me with a humorless laugh, “No matter how fucked up it is.”

                For a moment, I’m a little too stunned to say anything.

                Then I squeeze his hand and he looks at me with a resigned sort of acceptance and I realize we’re going to be fine. I made the right decision. Even if he was furious with me. He understands. Like I knew he would. He gets it.

                “When do you want to see them?”

                Bruce looks down, his shoulders going rigid. “As soon as possible. As soon as I—” he swallows, “Get in the right headspace for it.”

                “I’ll take you whenever you’re ready. You don’t have to decide anything right away. You can take as much time as you need.”

                “I’m not going to kill them. And neither are you.”

                I blink at him. He scowls at me.

                “Alright.”

                “I’m not.”

                He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. Like he doesn’t really know if he’ll be able to stick with that decision. It doesn’t matter to me. I did this for him. Come hell or highwater, I will do what he wants. No matter what.

                “Then you won’t.”

                “No,” Bruce murmurs, “I won’t. I won’t kill them. I won’t.”

 

  **Diana**

The moment I stumble into the kitchen and find Clark and Bruce seated not only side by side, but pressed together like old chums, I know their little spat this morning must have fixed everything. I can forgive them for so rudely waking me up then.

                The manor is languorously quiet, empty of most of its occupants. Alfred took the boys early for a much needed supply run, with a promise of returning later in the afternoon after a visit to the ‘cinema’. Lois and Jon are staying with family in Metropolis for the weekend. Which leaves just us three and I can’t be ungrateful. It’s nice, having just us three. Simple and familiar. Like wearing a pair of faded old jeans. 

                 I get my own cup of coffee, careful not to break the dreamy quality of the morning as I shuffle to the table to join my two favorite men. Clark looks up first and smiles in greeting, Bruce, turns his head and offers me an expectant look. With the whiskers on his cheeks and the circles under his eyes, he looks as gorgeous as ever. And very much like the Batman after a long night of patrol.

                 It does something to my insides.

                So, I take his expression to mean he’s accepting kisses today. I press my mouth to his and smile when he deepens the kiss enough to make my stomach flutter. 

                “Well, good morning to you too,” I whisper, throat scratchy and voice just a little too husky for just sleep. “On the mend then?” I gesture at them with a hand, sipping delicately at my coffee.

                Clark clears his throat, “We talked.”

                “It sounded a little like a fight.”

                “It was. A little,” Clark offers, suddenly looking pensive and not nearly relaxed enough for having made up. It puts a decided damper on my mood and that good morning kiss.

                “Is there more?”

                “Well—”

                Bruce looks at Clark then sighs, “Yes.”

                I wait for someone to fill me in and when no one does, I roll my eyes. It’s nothing new. Between Bruce, who isn’t the greatest conversationalist when it comes to feelings and Clark, who gets himself talked into circles because of his bleeding heart, I’m the one who usually has to direct these sorts of things. Still, it would be so much easier if we were all on the same level.

                “OK. Let’s hear it. What do I need to know? Why are you two shooting furtive glances at each other?”

                Bruce shifts in his seat then looks down at the table as if to memorize the grains of wood there. “Clark has been keeping the men who hurt me locked in the Fortress. I need to see them. And I want you to come with me.”

                I blink, because it’s still early and I might not be firing on all cylinders yet. “Clark has the men who hurt you. And you want to see them. And me to come.”

                “Yes.”

                Clark sighs when my gaze skates over to him and I lift both brows. To say I’m stunned Clark kept this from me is a bit of an understatement. I’m amazed. A little—miffed, maybe. Possibly a touch hurt. I’m not certain. There might also be something like pride rolling around in there as well.

                “This is a surprise.”

                “Yes, it is,” Bruce agrees, tracing the wood grains now with the pads of his fingers, “I need to see them.”

                I pause, exchanging tense looks with Clark over Bruce’s bowed head.

                “Are you sure that it will be helpful to you?”

                Cool gray eyes flicker up, then hold mine captive for a strangled breath and I nod when I see the answer there. It doesn’t matter why he needs to see them. It only matters that he thinks it will help. Now, as to why Clark kept this from me and obviously Bruce, I’m still very much confused. It makes no sense.

                “Clark?” I say quietly, angling myself to look at him more closely. His shoulders are curving in on themselves in a posture I know well. “Why did you do this?”

                “It’s complex.”

                “Tell her, Clark,” Bruce rumbles, before taking a long drink of his coffee.

                Clark looks between us, a child caught between mom and dad for a brief uncomfortable moment, then he sighs wearily. “I’ve kept the men who hurt Bruce in the Fortress because I wanted Bruce to have the chance to decide their fate. To decide if he wanted them dead or not.”

                I could not have been more surprised. Boy Scout Clark considering murder is even a bit much for my brain this early. “Oh, Clark.”

                “I needed to be sure,” he defends, “I wasn’t—thinking all that clearly and wanted to wait till Bruce was back to himself. I wanted to keep it to myself, to limit the possibility of influence on myself or others. But—” he blinks quickly, hands fisting on the table, “Bruce has no interest in killing them. So, once he sees them, we will turn them both over to the police. They will likely go to the same supermax as Luthor.”

                My gaze jerks back to Bruce, “This is what you want?”

                “I—” he swallows, “Yes, I think so.”

                “I wish that you’d told me Clark,” I murmur, cradling my coffee in both hands if only to give my hands something to do.

                “You would have talked me out of it.”

                “Maybe.” I might have also simply killed them myself. I don’t have the same patience as Clark. I don’t have the same moral compass that keeps me so in check. I was trained as a warrior. A warrior that could recognize when a monster is just a monster and should be put down like the dog it is. Those men who hurt Bruce, are not human in my eyes. They are monsters. They do not deserve the same treatment I might offer another offender.

                They _deserve_ to die.

                Clark can’t know how much I appreciate his willingness to go against everything he believes in to offer Bruce this bit of closure. To give him peace. 

                 “What’s done is done,” Bruce hums, “I need to see them. And then we’ll,” he traces the wood grain, a pained look crossing his face, “hand them over. The justice system will take care of it.”

                “Yes.”

                Though they won’t do it as I would see fit. They will be offered too much leniency and we all know it. It is the curse of an impartial system.

                My eyes find Clark’s and neither of us says what we both think. Killing them would be better. Erasing them off the face of the earth would make us all feel better. Though I’m not certain it would be worth the cost to Bruce’s sense of code. It might be too great a cost.

                “I could send them to the phantom zone,” Clark suddenly offers and Bruce jolts in his chair like he’s been struck with a cattle prod.

                “No.”

                “But it would be worse—”

                “I don’t believe in being judge, jury, and executioner. To send them there would negate the process of doing this legally. It would upset everything I worked so hard for.”

                There is a part of me that loves how much Bruce clings to his rules. Because it makes him who he is. Unapologetically. But the other part of me wants to snap at his foolishness and decide for him. Make him do what only makes sense to me. Either send those men away forever or kill them. Either decision would suffice in offering a permanent solution. Either would appease the slightly bloodthirsty sensation rolling around in my middle.

                The longer I think of them, alive and safe, in that Fortress, the more I itch to act. To kill.

                And that is exactly why Clark likely kept it from me. He knew I wouldn’t be able to sit so long knowing who he had in custody. Knowing what they did to Bruce. The damage they inflicted on the man that I love.

                “The Phantom Zone would ensure they can never return.”

                Bruce’s jaw clenches and I prepare for him to snap at me. He doesn’t.

                “I know.”

                I inhale softly, taking in the scent of coffee and the bitter tang of anxiety in the air and then reach for Bruce’s hand on the table top. His skin feels chilled and just a touch chapped. So very human and fragile between myself and Clark, who are so very not human. “I’m sorry Bruce. We will follow whatever choice you make. Without question.”

                Bruce nods once, affirming he heard me. But he’s slipping inside his mind already and there is nothing I can do to stop him. I know where I am unwelcome. And he looks like he’s done talking about it.

                “When do we leave?” I shift my attention to Clark, silently offering Bruce a way out. He takes it.

                “Tomorrow or the day after. Bruce wanted time to get ready.”

                I cast Bruce a sidelong look and say nothing to stop him as he pushes back from the table and seeks out more coffee. “Understandable. Does anyone else know?”

                “Dick is aware that you know their identities. He helped me crack the file. And Tim. I had him working on the case.” Bruce mumbles from the fridge, only his rear end sticking out as he rummages.

                “No one else?” I ask.

                “No,” Clark rolls a shoulder, “It makes things easier. Right now, anyways.”

                We all fall into silence when Bruce returns with a bowl of Dick’s cereal. I join him, and Clark quietly slips away without saying goodbye. Somehow, we both know it’s what we all need. The rift is mended but there is still wounding on both sides. And Bruce needs space to collect himself. We finish breakfast, not speaking, until Bruce goes to rinse out his bowl and I join him at the sink, risking his rejection to wrap my arms around his middle.

                He allows the contact and relaxes back into me, letting his whiskered cheek rest against mine, and settling his back firmly into my front. He smells like coffee and his tea tree body wash. He smells like home.

                “I was so mad at him.”

                “I know.”

                Bruce wraps both hands around my wrists on his stomach like bracelets, keeping his grip light and exploratory, “I understand why he did it. It makes sense.”

                “Yes, it does. He loves you.”

                Bruce sighs, “He shouldn’t have given me the option.”

                “Why?”

                “Because I want it too much,” Bruce’s voice comes out in a strangled whisper, the emotion thick and gritty. Messy. This is not a clean matter. It is not something that has defined edges or rules. And that is a struggle for a person like Bruce who likes his rules and edges and borders.

                “You are just a man, Bruce.”

                “God, Diana,” he chokes out, “I want them dead. I want it badly.”

                “I know.”

                He laughs, dark and full of sorrow, then turns in my arms to press our mouths together. The kiss surprises me. Because it is as dark as his feelings. It tastes like pain. But I welcome the sharing of it. His hands find my hair and tug just enough to bring my mouth harder into his, sending little tingles of pleasure along my scalp and into my belly.

                His lips, almost always impatient and demanding, feel like they are begging for something. And I try to give it. I try to give him what he needs but it doesn’t feel like enough. We break apart panting, leaning into one another heavily. Forehead to forehead, chest to chest.

                “I want to want you.” Bruce’s eyes flutter shut as he takes a few deep breaths, looking like he’s cleansing his mind, “I want to want you without thinking about what they did to me. I hate them for it.”

                “It will get better.”

                “It doesn’t feel like it,” the gray of his eyes looks young and so, so tired, “It feels like I will always feel like this. And I don’t want to. I want them gone. I don’t want to worry. I don’t want to wake up at night and think about them and wonder if they’ll ever get out. I don’t—I don’t—”

                I kiss him again because I don’t know what else to do. Because I can see the fear and the hatred and the love in his gaze and I want to push away the demons. But I don’t know how. So, I kiss him. I kiss him just a little too hard and gasp when he reciprocates and practically shoves me into the counter, devouring my mouth like he’s starving. Like he will never get enough.

                I can feel when the switch flips inside him and he decides. I can feel it in his hips and the flex of muscle in his back. In the way he starts to demand the way he used to, and I melt easily into him. It is familiar, and it is so, so welcome. 

                I revel in the way he holds me, the way he hasn’t held me in so very long and I let him manhandle me, because it seems like he needs it. He needs to feel in control and to feel like he isn’t falling apart.

                “Upstairs?” I ask when he starts to tug open my robe and seek out skin. Though I wouldn’t care if we finished this on the kitchen counter. I wouldn’t care at all.

                He blinks, eyes hazy and pupils blown like black discs, “I—yes. Yes, I want that.”

                “It’ll be alright if you don’t.”

                “I do,” Bruce kisses me again, hard, then soft and bone melting, lingering over the kiss until my hand are snaking up his shirt and desperate for more. “I want it. I want it so much I ache.”

                “We’ll go slow. You can stop if you need to. I won’t be upset.”

                He nods, but doesn’t look like he’s fully paying attention. His gaze is on the gapping of my robe, his hands already seeking out all the places he knows I love. All the places that make me weak in the knees.

                “I love you.”

                He buries his face in my neck and kisses a line up to my ear, warming my skin with his damp breath, “Help me forget. Make me yours again, Diana.”

                I wrap a hand in his hair and force his neck into a long arch. He’s beautiful. With this angle, he has no choice but to look me dead in the eyes. “Bruce Wayne, you are mine. Always. Forever.”

                He makes a sound similar to a growl in the back of his throat, then eagerly picks me up and wraps my legs around his waist. I would allow no other man this sort of leeway. I have allowed no other. Only him. Only Bruce.

                My heart is pounding so fast and loud, I’m surprised I can hear his whispered chants past the sound of it as he carries me towards our bedroom. But I do hear it and it soothes like a balm between us. It comforts.

                “Yours,” he chokes out, peppering me with kisses, memorizing long forgotten skin under his calloused palms. “Always. Forever.”

                “Mine,” I answer quietly.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to update!! I am hoping to get a second chapter up later this week. It will probably be more like Saturday, but I'll do my best. Thanks for the patience:)

**Bruce**

I’ve called Tim off the hunt.

Damian and Jason haven’t been told anything concrete, but I’m certain they both know something is up. Between Tim and Dick, it isn’t likely they’ve kept all of what they know to themselves. And I haven’t trained fools. Even if they didn’t have some inclination as to what I’ve been up to over the last week, they’d sense the change in the air as easily as they’d taste the damp right before a storm. I would expect no less.

Though no one knows why I’m leaving with Clark and Diana today. No one knows that the Fortress is housing more than secret artifacts and ancient relics from other worlds.

That I’m going to face the two men who not only tortured and experimented on me for close to year, but who did it so well, they even made me forget who I was.

I start the day not even aware that I’m doing it like preparing for an execution. Everything feels dull, but important. Every step crucial that I do it right. Though Diana is now staying in our bedroom again, I wake early, and she allows me the solitude. She’s knows me well enough when to leave me be with my thoughts. I hit the gym with a sort of detached purpose and I work out much the same. I lift the weights, I run on the treadmill, and I punch the bag, all with my mind in a distant fog. But I do it all very carefully. Very regimented. I don’t know how else to.

I shower, then shave with a deliberate slowness that challenges my own strengths in patience. But I need the discipline. I need the obedience of my will in order to feel those tethers of control that are just barely within grasp. If I don’t hold tightly, if I don’t force submission, I will lose them and everything will come tearing apart _. I will come tearing apart_.

I wear my black turtle neck and slacks like a uniform, wishing it were thicker and armored, but knowing there would be no point to having it. When Clark and Diana meet me in the kitchen, both sedate, I wish I had something to say. I wish I could say something at all.

My vocal chords feel paralyzed. So, I say nothing, and no one tries to make me. They understand as much can be expected. They understand that what I’m not saying is that this will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. That I might not be able to cope with what I said I would.

I may not be as strong as I want to be.

I’m grateful for the silence on the flight to the Fortress. We fly leisurely, in no hurry, but everything about this feels wrong. I can sense the crackle of energy between us three as easily as if it could be seen. And by the time we reach the snow-covered doors to Superman’s home, my ears are buzzing like angry bees. Diana puts me down, but my legs are Jell-O and barely hold me upright.

“We can do this another day,” Clark offers to my right, his voice calm and soothing. Nothing like the steadily increasing rasp of my breath drowning out the whir of snow and wind.

“No. Today.”

Diana nods, taking one of my gloved hands, silently offering support though I know it won’t help. No one can really support me through this. I am as alone as I was in the pit. As alone as I was sitting on that table. They can try and understand. They can try and sit beside me, to take some of the burden that is so goddamn heavy in my mind, but they can’t really do it. They can’t make the sense of isolation that the trauma has gifted me with, go away.

Sealed inside the Fortress now, we walk with Clark in front, guiding us deeper into the glistening palace of ice. I’ve been here countless times throughout the years. And every time I am in awe of the ethereal beauty of it. This time, I see none of it. I see nothing at all. My heart is racing ahead of my steps, bruising my ribs with how fast its running. I’m breathing so loudly, I know they can hear me. I know they can practically smell the fear and trepidation rolling off of me in thick brutal waves, but they don’t stop me. They don’t say anything.

We meander down endless halls. A maze of halls that seem more like the inner workings of a hive than that of a building. One could easily get lost within the Fortress and never get out. Its level of security is irreproachable and should be a comfort to me. It’s not.

“They are down there.”

I blink up at Clark, as he’s stopped at the mouth of what looks like a dead-end. There is a hall, short and rounded to his right. I can see unnatural light glowing at the back of it. But there is only silence within.

I don’t know what I expected. But it isn’t the stillness here. In Arkham or Blackgate, the noise inside the walls can be outright cacophonous. It can rattle your teeth. But this place is as silent as a mortuary. I can’t decide which is worse.

“They are in there—”

Clark nods, “Yes. Two cells. I’ve kept them separate. It’s one-way glass. You’ll see them, but they won’t see you. Not unless you want them to. They can’t hear you either.”

“Alright,” it doesn’t feel alright. It feels—like I’m already slipping down the path of panic, hard and fast. I thought this would be easier. In fact, I thought this would feel good. To see them behind bars, where they are secure and trapped. But I can’t make my feet move. I can’t even breathe right.

Diana squeezes my hand, still numbly wound with hers and presses her lips to my ear, “Breathe, Bruce.”

I obey quietly, keeping my eyes on the floor as I draw in breath after breath, trying to hear the way Diana is doing it, to prevent mine from rushing. It helps, but minutely. I’m already shaking and I’m not even down the fucking hall. But knowing they are there—knowing they are just down that hall—I’m scared. I’m more scared than I’ve ever been of anything and it shames me to the core to know it.

“We won’t leave you.”

I look up from the floor and find Clark watching me. He looks about ready to bolt and take me with him. “I know.”

“They can’t hurt you.”

I nod slowly, trying to wet my bone-dry mouth. “I know. I—I know that.”

Clark’s brow furrows, “We can leave. You don’t have to do this.”

“I need to,” my voice comes out ragged. Not harsh or angry. But weary and resigned. It’s true. We all know it. I need to do this. If nothing else, then to say that I could face them. Even if they can’t see me, I need to see them and know that they don’t own me anymore. That even though I’ve got a long way to go, they didn’t ruin me.

The first step is the worst. But once I take it, the others follow and its like I’ve flipped onto autopilot because I hardly even feel my legs taking my body down that short hall to where Thames and McMillan are being held. I know Clark is following and that Diana is still right there, holding my hand, but I can’t see or feel them. I am only peripherally aware of their presence.

When we reach the one-way glass Clark spoke of, everything in my body from head to toe, locks up. I freeze like the animal they made me, as frigid knives of fear wash over my arms and legs and down the back of my neck. I have to fight with everything in me, not to run.

I see McMillan first, because he’s the most distinguishable to me.

_The man with the fingers that I know, the man with the fingers, with the fingers, withthefingers—_

“Bruce—”

Diana’s voice sounds very, very far away. Like I’m listening to it under thousands of gallons of water. I can’t take my eyes off the glass. McMillan is sitting on his bed, looking as unchanged as my memories. He looks a little thinner, his face maybe a little gaunt from lack of sleep or no sunlight. I don’t know. But otherwise, he is the same. Pale skin, balding, the traces of a paunch on his midsection. A middle-aged man who doesn’t look like much of a threat at all.

But I know otherwise.

I recognize the man with the clipboard too. Though less easily. Less—viscerally. He is taller than McMillan. Thinner. Younger. Dark hair, dark eyes, long elegant hands. His glasses are missing.

I’m on the edge of the dark abyss, staring into it with terror lodged into every cell of my body but I’m here. I’m standing. I’m facing them.

McMillan sighs, and gooseflesh rushes up my frame so fast and rough it actually hurts. My body remembers his noises. All of them. My mind doesn’t want to. I don’t realize I’ve made a sound of distress until I feel Diana shaking me. Clark is saying something too. But I can’t tear my eyes away. I can’t look away—

McMillan is staring at the glass. His eyes are pale blue and narrowed. I know he can’t see me. I know I’m safe. I know I—

I’m not safe. McMillan knows I’m here. He’s going to find out and be angry with me. He’s going to make me pay for all of this and then he’s going to make me forget again. He’s going to hurt me. He’s going to make me forget.

Instinctively, I make myself small. I shrink in, hugging my knees to my chest, pressing my face to my slacks, panting out breath after breath. I don’t feel the hands on my shoulders. I don’t hear the voices trying to call me back to the present. Back to them.

I only hear the man with the fingers that I know. I only hear him.

 

_“What did I tell you about crying?”_

_I shiver in the corner of the dark room, desperate to find warmth, anywhere. But there is none. And I’m so cold. It’s late too. Or early? I don’t know. But I’m tired. And I don’t want to see him. I don’t want him here._

_“What did I say?” the man with the fingers is closer now and I know he’ll demand answers. He’ll make it hurt worse if I don’t give it. So, I angle my body out of the corner and mumble a response, even though I know it won’t prevent the punishment. It will only make it hurt less._

_“Not to.”_

_“What?”_

_I hiccup past a half-sob, pressing dirty hands to my aching eyes. The tears wet my skin and burn it. “Not to cry.”_

_“That’s right. I said not to cry,” he pushes into my space and though I can’t see well, I can smell just fine. He reeks of alcohol. He’s been drinking. His fingers skate over my cheeks, into my hair and down the back of my neck. The callouses feel like claws and I know I shouldn’t make any sound, but I can’t help the whimper that slips out. I don’t want this. I ache all over and I’m so cold and I’m so hungry and if I can’t get warm I just want to sleep and be left alone—_

_“Shhh.”_

_He only says that when he’s going to hurt me. I stiffen when those rough fingers pry at my mouth and force their way in. He’s done this before. I know what he’s doing. I still fight it. I still choke on those fingers and their taste. He always tastes sour. He always smells like rotten eggs and this time, alcohol. I’m afraid I might get sick and then it will be worse. He’ll be rough with me. He’ll hit me while he’s doing it. He’ll punish._

_“P-please. I don’t want—”_

_“Shut up.”_

_“But I—”_

_I don’t see the hit coming because its too dark. But I feel it. It hurts so much my eyes water and I start crying again. I can’t stop the tears. The man with the fingers that I know starts to laugh but it sounds ugly and it sounds mean. So, I curl inwards and try to make myself smaller. I try to protect my soft belly from him because he likes to kick me there. But this only protects a few places. The rest, is left open. I know this. I still do it. I have nothing else._

_The man with the fingers is already grabbing my hips, digging his blunt nails into the skin. He’s angry now. He’ll be rougher. I cry in earnest. And I scream when he cruelly starts in. The noises he makes while he’s enjoying himself, easily cover up my own. I drown in them._

**Clark**

 

“Bruce?”

Oh God, this was a mistake. It was too soon. He wasn’t ready.

He’s curled up like a pill-bug, head completely covered by his arms, legs sucked in tight to his chest. The dictionary definition of the fetal position and it makes my heart ache. It makes it hard to breathe or do much of anything at all. Mostly because I don’t know what _to_ do. 

He’d said he wanted this. I’d done what he wanted.

He wasn’t ready. I should have known better. Bruce is always so hard on himself. Always pushing every limit, no matter that the limits shouldn’t always be pushed. He’s fragile and human and God, if he didn’t look so pitiful right now, I’d have hauled him up by the arm and then chewed him out for pushing himself too hard. Because he’s always pushing too hard. Always.

“Come back to us,” Diana says quietly, one hand brushing over his shoulder in an absent motion that I know is far from it. She’s leery of touching him. Of making the panic worse.

“Bruce,” I try, kneeling beside him, willing my own pulse to slow. His is fast and panicked, a bounding thrum in my ears and I try not to let it affect my own. “We’re here with you. You’re safe.”

He curls in tighter.

“This isn’t working,” I snap, angry at Diana and myself for allowing him to do this.

She doesn’t look remotely fazed by it. She looks calmer than ever. But Diana is as good at Bruce at controlling her emotions. She is a warrior through and through. Later, when the battle slows, she will engage her feelings on the matter. But not before. “No, it’s not.”

“Should we move him?”

She frowns down at Bruce, “I am afraid it will send him in deeper.”

I glance over my shoulder at the oblivious prisoners and blow out a frustrated breath, “We can’t leave him here.”

“No.”

“Then we should—”

Bruce interrupts us both with a high keening wail and it forces an entirely unwelcome shiver down my spine. He sounds like a pained animal being tortured. I imagined that’s close to the truth. At least wherever it is he’s gone inside his mind.

It sickens me to know the men at my back are the cause of it. It makes me see everything in reds.

Apparently, Diana is of the same mind as myself, because she’s already got him hoisted into her arms before I can. Bruce lets loose an absolutely blood chilling scream, raising every hair on my body. Guilt slams into my middle like heavy fist, but I can’t deal with it now. We’re already moving as one back down the hall and quickly towards the living quarters I put in some three years ago. I never saw the need for extra bedrooms. Bruce insisted that it made sense to have rooms available for possible guests. I’m glad I listened to him now.

At the first one, Diana strides inside and deposits Bruce on the bed. He’s so rigid he doesn’t break shape and remains balled up and whimpering. I stand frozen for a solid ten seconds before I see Diana return with a wet wash rag. Which makes absolutely no sense to my emotionally addled mind, until she starts to bathe the back of his neck and scrub his hair. Then I understand. And it’s worth the try. I finally manage to leap into action and go to retrieve my own rag.

Like forcing a child out of a night terror, adding a benign but powerful source of outside stimuli, in this case, a wet rag, can be exceptionally good at bringing them out of it. If I remember correctly, Bruce had night terrors as a child and Alfred often bathed him with wet rags to wake him up.  

It takes two minutes and thirty-four seconds for Bruce to abruptly come out of the panic and when he does, we both know. He uncoils, his muscles go slack and feeble, breaths slowing and then turning choppy. But we are helpless to do much else, when the panic becomes sorrow and Bruce covers both hands over his face and weeps. The sobs are deep and from his gut, the sort that mean something is broken. Something has gone terribly, terribly wrong. It’s the hardest I’ve ever seen him cry. It’s the worst I’ve ever seen him lose it and it affects me so badly I’m turning and swiping at my own eyes to try and hide it.

It’s different when it’s the full-on Bruce weeping. Different in a way that cuts and _hurts_ and stings. I struggle to even out my breathing and control my response, because Bruce needs us strong right now. But it’s hard. It’s so very hard. I want to wrap him in my arms and make promises of safety. I want to remind him that it’s over and that everything will be alright now. But none of that would help.

And we all know it.

So, Diana and I stand silent, two useless super powered beings, and let our friend cry till he can’t anymore.

When he’s empty, Bruce looks like he’s been hollowed out. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. His skin is pink and raw from repeated scrubbing. But he’s alive and he’s still here. He’s still himself. And that’s something. It has to be.

“That was—” he pauses, voice coming out gravelly and hoarse, “worse than I was expecting. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Diana shakes her head, “Never apologize.”

He’s still lying on the bed, but on his side now. He looks close to sleep. “You knew it would be bad,” he whispers, “you knew I would flashback.”

She brushes hair from his forehead, impossibly sweet and loving. I’m so grateful to Diana in this moment, it’s hard to voice how much she means to me. She is exactly what Bruce needs. “No. But I suspected.”

He sighs, eyes slipping closed, “I’m so tired now. It’s pathetic.”

I snort, “Bruce, my God, give yourself a break.”

His mouth is a thin line that says he’ll do whatever he damn well pleases, thank you very much. It makes me smile to see it. It shakes a bit more of the impossible tension in my limbs free.

“Clark is right. Give yourself a break,” Diana muses, “And rest a while. We’ll go home when you wake up.”

Bruce blinks blurrily up at us, eyes skating from one and then the other, then they flutter closed again. “Fine.”

It’s as polite of an agreement as we’ll ever get.

We wait a handful of minutes for his breathing to even and his heart to slow enough to denote sleep, then we slip back out and leave him to rest. Just outside the door, Diana takes my hand in hers hard enough to make my knuckles groan. Startled, I turn to frown at her, but she doesn’t want to talk. My gut lurches when she throws both arms around my middle, then hugs me hard. Though Diana has never been shy about showing affection, she does not often show it like this. Not with this sort of desperate flavor to her actions.  

“Diana?” I ask softly, keeping my voice down for Bruce.

“Just a moment,” she whispers into my shoulder, tightening her arms about my stomach. I return the favor, squeezing back, offering what little comfort I can. I know that’s what she’s asking for, but I don’t know if I am the person to give it right now. The longer I hold her, the quicker the tears from before come rushing back up my throat and I have to swallow convulsively to keep them down.

“It was—it was terrible to see that.”

My eyes squeeze shut. A tear slips past my defenses and wets Diana’s hair. It doesn’t matter. The time for being strong is over and in this quiet hallway, far from prying eyes, I can be weak. Right now, Diana is asking me to be, because she is. There is something very freeing about knowing that.

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t cry then. But I wanted to,” she draws back now, peering into my eyes with a look so pained, it hurts to see, “How did you do this all on your own before?”

I swallow thickly then push a strand of Diana’s dark hair behind an ear, “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

“It’s OK. You’re here now. We all have each other again.”

The three of us have always been stronger together. Now, that is more the case than ever.

We hug longer than we’ve ever needed to. I don’t understand it completely. But hugging Diana is the glue that helps me put the pieces back into place. It helps fix the fractures that seeing Bruce so ruined again broke. I can only hope that our bond will help us all as we go through the next phase. Bruce still needs to decide what he wants. And though he said he wants those men to go to prison, after today, there is a big part of me that hopes he’s changed his mind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Jason**

I’m not usually one to show up for team meetings or bonding exercises. It’s not my deal. But when I get a text from Dick, Damian, and Tim—all separately—I know something is up. I know I need to show up.

                I’m busy during the day, believe or not, because I actually have a job. Yeah, I need money to keep the lights on just like everybody else. So, I can’t show up till after eight and it’s full dark outside. This far outside of Gotham’s ugly kirtle the air smells cleaner and brisk. It smells richer and it makes me smirk as I climb off my bike and slip in through the servant’s entrance off the kitchen.

                Though we usually meet here, where food and arguments combine for some truly spectacular debacles, I already know that’s not where I’ll find them. Alfred is absent the halls as I stride deeper into the manor and aside from the hollow ticking of various ornate grandfather clocks, there is an eerie presence to the night that feels like I am somewhere in between that strange place of not sleeping but not awake. It makes my shoulders hunch and my hands flex. I don’t like the feeling.

                 When I get to the study, it isn’t surprising to see my brothers all seated and waiting for me. What is surprising is the silence. Generally, we aren’t a quiet bunch. Especially with Dick, who loves to talk. But now, they all look to me with varying shades of surprise and interest. And no one says anything for far, far, too long.

                “You came,” Dick says first, standing to greet me in his usual way. I don’t protest the hug, because I’ve long ago given up on doing that, and instead casually return the embrace. I still feel itchy and weird, like my skin is too tight.

                But no one is rushing to explain this impromptu meeting, and no one seems eager to begin either.

                “I’m not a dick,” I smirk at him, “no insult intended. Why am I here?”

                Damian pushes elegantly to a stand and I am reminded that the kid isn’t as young as he used to be. Sure, he’s still a kid. But he’s got old eyes and years of ugly under his belt. He’s not an innocent by any shade of the word.

                “We have some news regarding the situation with Father.”

                “News…”

                Tim looks away and studies the empty hearth intently, his hands loosely knotted in his lap. I frown back at Damian and then Dick and find both of them hesitating. Both of them waiting for what the hell, I don’t know. But it’s making me irritated that they aren’t just spitting whatever this is, out.

                “Any time today would be nice. I just got off a twelve-hour shift and I’m tired.”

                 Dick’s nose wrinkles, “Are you still working the Steel Mill?”

                “Yes. Got a problem with that, Detective highbrow?”

                “No.”

                I shrug a shoulder, “Good. Get it out kid. I don’t have all night.”

                “We found the men who hurt Father. And—” green-silver eyes dash to mine and hold for a long breathless moment, “And we know where they are being kept.”

                There are several emotions that go through me. Anger, relief, pain—something else dark and violent I do my damndest to control. I breathe through the emotions, because this feels like a test and I stupidly don’t want to fail, but at the same time, all I can feel and see is the old man’s face back when I confronted him in this very same study. He’d been so terrified of me, it had felt cruel to do it. We’d fought, battled together until the confession of his fear had been torn out of him like shredding his insides.

                My hands, which I now keep gloved at all times in the manor, were too similar to one of his tormentors. Even now, I feel my fingers digging into my palms in the leather gloves as my heart ratchets up in my chest. Instinct snarls to the surface in my brain and hisses to _kill. Find, destroy, and then kill. Make them pay. Make them suffer. Show them what it feels like._

                “Jay—” Dick is moving in front of me, blocking my view of the rest of the room. But I wasn’t even really looking at it. I was inside my mind, replaying conversations and living out fantasies which I should be able to control. But I can’t. “We brought you here to discuss what to do.”

                I struggle through the haze of the bloodlust and blink to clear it. “Yeah, OK. Yeah.”

                Dick nods, “We wanted to know what you think, but from your reaction, I’d say it’s pretty obvious what you think.”

                “Yeah,” I swallow thickly, then force myself to see the other two. I force myself to remember where I am and who I’m with. I’m not animal. I can control that part of myself. I can. “Where are they?”

                “It’s complicated.”

                This succeeds in clearing my thoughts further and I frown at Damian over Dick’s head. “What do you mean, it’s complicated? You said they were being held. Who has them?”

                Tim’s voice is paper thin and weary when he responds. Drenched in something that reeks of sadness. “Clark. They are in the Fortress.”

                A beat of silence. A dreadful pause that makes every hair on my body stand on end.

                “What. The. Fuck.”

                Dick starts chewing his lip, a sure sign of anxiety and turns to start pacing. It doesn’t help my own surge of it. “Clark has had them this whole time.”

                “I don’t—that makes no sense. Why would he do that? Why didn’t he just hand them over to the police like a good little Boy Scout?”

                “He wanted to let Father choose.”

                “Choose…” I feel a little dumb, like I’m not getting the answer to an equation while everyone else in the room understands just fine. But it’s just not coming to me. My mind feels like a blank slate. It makes absolutely no sense to me why the alien would do such a thing and— “No. He wouldn’t—he wanted B to kill them?”

                “No,” Tim shakes his head, “He wanted Bruce to have the choice. To see if he wanted to kill them or not. Or kill them himself.”

                “Holy shit.”

                Dick nods, “My thoughts exactly.”

                “And he just told you all of this?” Tim’s guilty shrinking is answer enough. I laugh, “Of course not. He has no fucking clue you’ve been snooping around, does he?”

                “He told me to look into it. He told me—”

                “To snoop around in his shit?”

                “Jay, that’s not fair.”

                “Like hell it isn’t. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation right now. It isn’t our goddamn business.”

                Damian snorts, “Yes, it is. Father was missing for almost a year. And he came back broken. It is exactly our business. Clark kept a vital secret from everyone.”

                “Those men can rot in hell as far as I’m concerned, but what B wants is what B gets. I’m not getting in the middle of this.”

                “Coward,” Damian snarls and I have to restrain the urge to launch myself over the couch to choke him. Dick must see the red flash in my gaze because he’s between us in an instant, his face a mask of concern and Mama instinct.

                “Let’s take it down a notch, yeah?” he soothes, grabbing my shoulder to steer me over to the loveseat. I don’t particularly want to sit when it feels like I’ve got ants under my skin, but I do. Because it’s Dick. And I’ve got a weak spot for the guy.

                “How did you find all this out?”

                Tim is looking at the floor, but he’s started to wring his hands. “Bruce asked me to look into the files Dick helped him hack from the Batcomputer. We found the names of his attackers. Dennis McMillan and Howard Thames,” he pauses, wetting his lips nervously, “He was desperate to find them. To get any leads on them. So, he handed the case over to me and everything he had on them. He asked me for help. And that’s what I was doing. Until he suddenly called me off the case. He told me to stop digging. He’d found what he was looking for.”

                “Odd, but what else is new? He’s been acting like a freak on crack since he got home.”

                Tim glared, “Yes, well, I can’t just shut off when I want to, and he told me to find leads. And I did. I’d already tracked the men back to Clark and knew there were too many suspicious loose ends. When Bruce told me that he was going away for the day with Clark and Diana, I decided to put a tracker on him.”

                My brows rise, and I don’t seem to be capable of stopping the snort unamused laughter, “Wow. I’m actually impressed. Bruce will _murder_ you when he finds out.”

                “He probably already knows,” Damian sneered, “He’s Father. Not an imbecile.”

                “He’s not been himself, has he? You little—”

                “Jay,” Dick warns, “And Damian please stop aggravating the situation. Tim? Continue.”

                I manage to keep my mouth closed. But just barely. I could use a drink. And a smoke.

                “They went to the Fortress. Which wasn’t strange, except, he was acting so strange before they left. And when I heard the audio files—”

                “You put a mic on him?”

                Tim nods, somber now. His color has drained, and he looks like a pale little old man. I wish I didn’t feel the ridiculous urge to stand up and hug him. Because that isn’t me. Not at all. But however much I try to deny it, I do care. And I don’t like seeing any of them, even the little Demon, hurting.

                “I heard everything. Clark has McMillan and Thames imprisoned in the Fortress. And he let Bruce see them. It didn’t go well.”

                The words fall like heavy ballast. Like fetid little bombs between us and I feel the tension rise in the room in flowering unpleasant waves. I’m not sure how to react, or how I’m supposed to react to these little nuggets of truth, but I only seem capable of staring at the carpet.

                It’s a nice carpet. Persian, thickly woven and vibrant in contrast to the heavy leather furniture. I’ve always liked the colors and the feel of it on bare feet. I remember laying on the carpet closest to the fire, cheek pressed into it, smelling that ‘old’ smell and feeling like a king. Because it was the smell of something rich and because it meant safety. It meant protection.

                “How is he? Is he—” I don’t want to say the words, for fear of how they might be responded to. We’ve all been primarily quiet about how badly Bruce’s memory loss affected us. But it was harder than we wanted to admit. It was very hard. To have gone back and lost progress, would be a devastating blow.

                I never want to see Bruce terrified of me ever again. Not in this life. Or the next.

                “He still remembers.”

                Damian growls, low and feral at Tim’s side, “He’s been a wreck all week. He’s hardly spoken to me. He’s barely come out of his room.”

                “Yes,” Dick agrees.

                I nod stiffly in response, “Alright, how am I supposed to help?”

                “Those men—those animals—should be executed.”

                My head jerks up and I find myself staring at Damian with something like dread curling in my stomach. “You can’t expect me to do that. Not when I’ve been clean for this long.”

                “No,” Damian hisses, “I don’t expect you to do anything. I am not the one who wanted you here.”

                Dick sighs, “Damian, if we don’t agree, we always call a meeting to discuss it. That’s the way this family works. And Tim and I, don’t agree. You can’t just execute those men. And if they aren’t dead yet, that means Bruce doesn’t want them to be either. It’s his decision.”

                “He’s hardly capable of making a clear choice as he is. A few weeks ago, he was a child in a man’s body.”

                “And now he’s not. He’s himself.”

                “Damian,” I say quietly, working to swallow the lump in my throat, “Would Bruce want you to kill them? Would he tell you to do that?”

                Damian’s eyes answer for me. Dark as they are, pupils like dinner plates, he already knows the answer. The truth that Bruce has pounded into us all since he took us in. Justice, not vengeance. Even at his weakest, the old man is going to cling to that mantra. And even though it grates, it’s not a surprise. In fact, it’s strangely a relief to know the old man can do more than preach.

                “Father will never recover fully until they are dead. By his own hand would be best.”

                “You don’t know that. You can’t know it.” Dick sounds like he’s been arguing over this for days, rather than an hour and he looks exhausted.

                “I know it. He won’t want to kill them, but he doesn’t know what he needs. I do. I’ve seen men in his position and the only chance to fully recover, is to eliminate the threat entirely. Permanently. Only then can he move on and the Batman return to full capacity.”

                “What if we’d never found these men? You saying Bruce wouldn’t have gotten better? That he never will?”

                Damian nods slowly, “That is what I am saying. I had acclimated myself to the possibility that those men would never be found and that Father would forever be handicapped. Now that we are certain of their whereabouts, Father has the chance to be himself again. One hundred percent. We can’t pass that up.”

                I shake my head, disagreeing with the Demon about killing for once. It’s strange. “You’re letting your own feelings about the matter cloud your judgement.”

                “I am not.”

                And strangely, said with such little emotion, I can almost believe that lie. But I’ve known Damian long enough, and I know his father well enough, to see the deeper shift of rage beneath the carefully erected walls. Sure, he thinks this is the right decision. He has Bruce’s best interest at heart. But this isn’t altruistic. It’s not only for Bruce.

                “You’re outvoted, Demon. Three to one.”

                Tim shifts on the couch, pushes to a stand, then sighs audibly, “I am undecided Todd.”

                “What? You can’t possibly—”

                “I can. You didn’t hear the audio. I did. That changes things for me. I need time to think.”

                Dick is deadly silent beside me, but I can feel the discomfort and upset like a second skin and I’ll admit, I’m more than a little shocked as well.

                “Are we not even going to take into account what B wants? What he said he wants?” I don’t like the desperate tinge to my voice. But I don’t like where this road is taking us. And I know Bruce wouldn’t either. He’d do everything in his power to prevent this from happening.

                Tim nods slowly, “I am taking it into account. I said I need time. Give me that and I let you know what I think in a couple days.

               

               

**Dick**

 

                I am in a haze.

                To know what we know, to be discussing killing other people with such—blatant disregard for everything we’ve been taught—it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. It makes me feel adrift and strange. Like Bruce isn’t the only one who broke these last months. And I don’t like the feeling.

                We all know what Bruce would say, and yet, we are undecided. We are sitting in a stalemate, with Tim as the deciding factor no less. Could I have ever imagined such a fate, so many years ago when Bruce first took me in and made me a part of his home? Could I have pictured discussing murdering other people, even if they are despicable human beings?

                It’s worse for me because I understand. It’s worse, because I’m not completely against the idea of ‘permanently eliminating’ them. God, how I’ve fallen off the glorious mantle of purity. I’ve grown so cold and embittered towards humanity I can discuss them like they are gnats to be squashed under a heel. Bruce would probably be disappointed in me for even allowing them to have had that discussion. For it even being a question at all.

                We don’t kill. How many times did he yell that at me? How many times did he grind into me, till it became a part of my soul? I’d wanted Zucco dead for murdering my parents. I’d wanted blood then too and he’d not let me have it. He’d protected me from myself.

                ‘ _We don’t kill, Dick. Never. Not for any reason.’_

                But we do suffer. And we die. And we get hurt, over and over, and in the end, what if we take something for ourselves, just this once? What if we allow ourselves one modicum of peace at the cost of a little blood? And evil blood at that?

                I’ve looked at the case files Tim drew up. Those men, McMillan and Thames, are evil. They haven’t just hurt Bruce. They have rap sheets the size of Kansas. Battery, assault with a deadly weapon, grand larceny, molestation, and for McMillan—murder in the third degree. Premeditated and coldblooded. He’s probably killed more than one person. It’s just the only one he got charged with. And Lex helped those bastards get out of jail, so he could use them for his little twisted games.

                The world would not miss Thames and McMillan. In fact, it would likely rejoiced upon their deaths.

                Less people would be hurt. More would be saved.

                But the same could be said if they were simply imprisoned for the rest of their lives.

                Is it justice to kill them? Or vengeance? Selfish? Or selfless?

                It’s only been twelve hours since our meeting, but I feel like it’s been a century. Frustrated and sleepless, I couldn’t fall asleep and so I find myself seeking Bruce out, though I know he probably won’t welcome it. Damian is right, he has been secluding himself. He’s been hiding.

                But I don’t blame him. I listened to the audio from the Fortress too. It haunts me now.

                Even nearing four in the morning, it’s no surprise to find Bruce perched on the roof of the manor, hiding in the shadow of a brick chimney. He’s barefoot, dressed in only a pair of pajama pants and he looks as vacant as the cloudless sky. There are never stars in Gotham because of the smog and light pollution, but if we could see them, I imagine they’d be stunning tonight.

                “What are you doing up here?” he whispers across the shingles and I pull myself further onto the roofing, bringing my peace offering with. A blanket and a thermos of cocoa. Regardless of always drinking his coffee bitter-black and wearing a frown, Bruce has a major sweet tooth. I’m going to capitalize on that.

                I need to have a sliver of normalcy tonight. A sliver of humanity.

                Just me and Bruce. Like old times.

                I amble nearer, offer him a lifted brow as question with the blanket, then drape it casually over both our shoulders. He unconsciously scoots nearer, and I can feel the chill of his skin through my shirt.

                “How long have you been out here?”

                He sighs, taking the offered cup of cocoa too. “You didn’t answer my question.”

                “Why am I up here?” he nods, “I couldn’t sleep. I knew I’d find you here, so I came.”

                Bruce’s eyes are slate gray in the scant lighting. Weary. “Diana had league business. I never sleep well without her now.”

                Nightmares. Memories. Anything that plagues him, he won’t want to willingly admit. I’m partially grateful for it because it allows me to pretend this is just a social visit and nothing else. That nothing bad has happened and we are just sharing a moment, just the two of us on this roof.

                “Why the roof?”

                He blinks, “What?”

                “Why come up to the roof? It’s not exactly comfortable sitting on sandpapery shingles and freezing.”

                He smirks, sipping thoughtfully on the cocoa before answering. “Because it’s up high. I like being up high.”

                I smile back at him, “I get that.”

                We lapse into silence for long comforting minutes and I soak them up like a child in a candy store. These minutes are rare, and I am well aware of it.

                Bruce sounds lost when he finally breaks the silence, “You know, when you were small, I gave up coming up here for almost a year.”

                “Why?”

                Bruce shrugs, “I was worried if you had a bad dream or needed me at night, you wouldn’t be able to find me. I put night lights in the hall, left my door open. I was an overly worried first-time parent.”

                The memory of those night lights and always knowing Bruce’s bedroom was open to me, makes me smile and lean closer. He smells like he always does. A little bit of coffee, a little bit of leather, and right now, sweet like chocolate. It’s a homey smell. One I associate with childhood and safety. So, I try very hard to hold onto the feeling when Bruce wraps an arm over my shoulders and presses his face into my hair to kiss the top of my head. I try not to tear up, knowing that he might see it. Knowing this moment might shatter and the reality of having heard the audio recording might snap back into place.

                I can pretend, for just a moment, that our lives are normal. He was just a rich guy who adopted a circus orphan and we never did anything special. We never fought crime or suffered countless injuries at the hands of Gotham’s criminals. I grew up boring, but loved, and that was it.

                Deep in my heart of hearts, I know that would never have been enough. The moment I witnessed my parents’ deaths, was the moment that alternate reality for me died with. I know that. But in these quiet moments, I still find myself wishing for simpler things. I still find myself impossibly moved by the notion that Bruce would have made a great normal dad.

                Because he makes a great not so normal one.

                “Are you alright?” I hear Bruce whisper into my hair and it sounds rough with emotion. He still hasn’t let me go. He’s actively holding me tighter and the emotions I’ve kept in check over the last day, want to spill over. It’s a struggle not to give in and just _lean_ into Bruce. He’s always been strong enough to take it. To hold us all up.

                But that’s not the case this time.

                “Yes,” I murmur, startling him with a chaste kiss to his cheek as I draw back, “I’m fine.”

                He stares down at me, a frown wrinkling his forehead, his eyes searching over me with fine precision that says he’s looking for answers. But there aren’t any to give. So, it’s time for me to call it a night.

                “I’m tired finally. I’m going to head to bed.”

                He blinks at me, “Dick, are you sure—”

                “I’m fine, B. Just tired. It’s been a long week. For you too. You should get down and go to bed. It’s too cold outside anyways.”

                Bruce’s scowl is familiar and tugs at my chest, because it means he is still himself. He is still just as obstinate about being bossed around as ever. It gives me the opportunity to leave. And like an animal tucking tail and admitting defeat, I am willing to take it. I’ve already started scooting back in the direction of the balcony I used to get up here, before he stops me. And I should have known he would, I should have known he wouldn’t immediately let that go.

                The kiss on the cheek was a mistake.

                It said too much. It smacked of too many feelings that Bruce wouldn’t be able to ignore. Before I can slip away entirely unscathed, he’s grabbing my wrist, gripping me just a shade too hard and there’s a pleading look in his eyes. Eyes that are watery and alien and hurting.

                All the breath leaves my lungs and I can do nothing but stare at him.

                “You would tell me, if there was something really wrong, wouldn’t you?” he sounds like it’s a struggle to speak. Like at any moment, with even a feather brushing his skin, he might shatter. It aches deep in my chest and makes my heart pound in my ears. It makes me want to curl up and hide. Because I can still hear his screams on the audio and I can’t forget it. I will never forget it. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you Dick?”

                “I—” he squeezes my wrist harder and I swallow thickly. My hands close over his and the words feel like glass leaving my lips, “Of course. I would tell you.”

                He sees the lie. He sees it the moment it comes out of my mouth and he flinches as if I’ve struck him. A single tear makes it past his reserves to stain his cheek. It sends a bolt of panic and pain through my stomach. He doesn’t brush it away. He doesn’t try to hide it. No, he turns his face away from me, then presses his face to his drawn-up knees and sighs raggedly.

                “Don’t let them do anything stupid, Dick. I can’t stop them right now. Promise me.”

                “I don’t—”

                “You know,” he whispers, eyes scrunched shut on his knees, hands fisted on the rooftop, “You know. Please don’t let them.”

                “I’ll do my best B.”

                It’s all I can offer. It doesn’t feel like enough.


	12. Chapter 12

 

**Alfred**

One might say that time passes differently in the manor.

                And they would be right.

                I’ve seen it happen enough throughout the years, where there is a hush that settles over the furniture and the framed pictures. There is a stillness that creeps along the walls and into the fabrics and cupboards. On certain days of the year, the darkness that lingers and pervades every niche, is so thick it chokes every bit of life out of the home. It slows time. It makes it bend to its will. And it is a force too strong to be denied.

                I am not necessarily a spiritual man. But I understand there are things that will never be explained through science or intellect. There are oddities that will not make sense nor can they, even if given all the time in the world.

                I learned long ago that the manor is innately connected to the Waynes. I don’t mean that figuratively, but rather literally. Bruce Wayne is the mooring point of the manor. His moods dictate the shadows and the brightness. His heart and where it goes, the manor shall follow. I’ve seen it time and time again, too many times to deny it.

                Master Bruce is flagging.

                The house knows. Her walls groan around the pain of it, aching like a bitter sore that knows its master is unwell and the children respond in kind. Conversations have slowly begun to melt away again, and whispers take their place. Anxious little conversations with worried glances and shrugged shoulders. The boys are as adept at sensing the shift in the wind as I have become. We all know that the length in the shadows and the weight in the air does not bode well. It means we have backtracked. It means that the progress we were all enjoying has slowed if not stopped completely.

                Time has stopped.  

                Master Bruce has secluded himself in his room for the last three days. Miss Diana has only been allowed entrance, and even that has made little difference to the cloying scent of despair that hangs as a pall in the manor. Like sickness, it infects us all and we wait with baited breath for the next move. For the next step.

                I’ve made Master Bruce a favorite tonic of mint tea and sugared toast with cinnamon. It’s a relic from his childhood but one that I was informed might be useful. Diana has gone to attend to League business, as she should. And she is as worried as the rest of us. More so. She has been in the thick of Bruce’s battle for days on end, smothered by the ugliness that doesn’t belong in that man. It sickens me to know that he is unwell. It aches, perhaps more so than even before to see how his sudden decline is affecting everyone.

                Master Clark is subdued and abnormally thoughtful. He speaks little at meals and appears somewhere else, eyes distantly fixed on an unknown point. The boys are much the same. Quiet, focused on the man who won’t come down for dinner and who has no idea how very much they all depend upon his happiness. Or perhaps he does—and that is why he hides all the more.

                I understand. I do.

                But I wish it were different. I wish this home and those who lived within, were not quite so chained to one person. It is too much weight for one man to bear.

                No one speaks to me about what is happening. No one bothers to explain. Maybe it is because they know that nothing is kept secret long, but I am hardly uninformed. I have ears. I have eyes.

                There is war brewing in the backs of eyes and twitching in fingers. I heard the terrifying conversation in the study between the boys over whether to kill or not to kill. I stood like a statue outside the walls and listened until I couldn’t anymore. And I did nothing to stop them. I couldn’t.

                I am in a position that makes my choices more difficult.

                I raised Master Bruce. He is more a son to me than anything else and that makes my feelings on the matter—complicated. If I had say on the matter, I would likely pick the unpopular opinion. I would have those men simply gone. Wiped away, like smeared stains on a glossy table. They do not belong, therefore, they must be removed.

                So, I’ve kept silent. I’ve said nothing. It’s not my place. And I wouldn’t do the right thing, if it were.

                 But I’ve thought long about it these last days. I’ve let it fester in my heart, as I’ve wondered on how to move forward and help my ward. I’ve visited the topic with gaining frequency that makes me edgy and uncomfortable because it isn’t like me to have such violent or unbecoming thoughts.

                And I’ve kept silent. But the manor, the manor knows all.

                She aches to have resolution. To be done with it all.

                I knock once on Master Bruce’s door and do not wait for his answer. I know what it will be if it is left up to him. I have not laid eyes on his person in days. It is unacceptable and we both know it. And it is time for a change. No matter how painful for us both.

                I stride into the dark room with purpose and place the tray in my hands, on the little table between the sitting chairs as I reach for the drapes. Pulling hard on the heavy fabric, I ignore the hiss of irritation coming from the bed and force my mouth into a smile before turning to face him.

                He is worse than expected. And it takes a great deal of effort to keep the corners of my mouth from falling. To keep my hands steady when I walk to the bed to smile down at his scowling visage.

                Hollowed out cheeks, covered in whiskers. Pale, pale skin cringing around purpling eye sockets and lost eyes. Progress is a tricky thing. It has starts and stops. It has times where it moves backwards. I must cling to the idea that this is only temporary. A minor hiccup.

           “Master Bruce, it is high time you got out of bed.”

            “Go away,” the words are spoken softly. Not a trace of venom or ire. Just words, bland and emotionless.

             “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I’ve been informed by Miss Diana that you’ve not bathed in days and are rather foul. I’ve come to remedy the situation,” my smile falters when white-washed gray flutters open and stare vacantly at me, “I’ve brought mint tea and sugared toast. It should hit the spot. Would you like it now, while it’s hot? Or after a bath?”

             Master Bruce stares at me for so long, I wonder if he heard me at all, then he offers me a stiff nod. Relief stings the back of my throat and nose and I move quietly to get the tray, rigidly keeping myself in check. I’ve raised him, loved him, and seen him in worse positions. He can move past anything. He can move past this.

            “Here,” I offer mildly, when he struggles to sit up. He takes the tray, brushing his fingertips over the tea and toast like he’s a blind man seeing for the first time.

             “Thank you,” he mumbles, but his eyes are still empty. He is still deep within his mind.

               I watch him eat the toast mechanically, tearing off pieces with long scarred up fingers. He drinks his tea, wipes his mouth, then finally glances up from his tray with an expectant look. One that says, ‘Is that good enough?’ It pains me to think he only does these things to make everyone else happy. That if it were up to him, he’d let himself fade into the background until nothing was left. He would simply—give up.

               “Shower or bath?”

               He blinks, as if to get his mind around either one, “Shower.”

               “Very good, sir. Allow me a moment to warm up the water for you.”

               He nods but makes no move to leave the bed. I wait a scant moment for the water in the shower to heat and for steam to delicately fill the spacious room, then I return and find Master Bruce standing by the closet staring at his clothes. I watch him as I have many, many times before, seeing his fingers brush over the fabrics before he settles on a black sweater. A pair of jeans follow, and he says nothing when I politely take them both from him before placing them on his dressing table. I’ll arrange everything while he bathes. Change the sheets, erase the clutter and the stale air that clings to the surfaces. He’s always appreciated a clean, fresh space. I hope it will help.

            Master Bruce undresses by the bathroom door, as he’s done countless times before in my presence. I keep my eyes averted and he disrobes with steady quick moves. But there is something in the air that stings this time. A foul odor of wrongness. I don’t know that I’m holding my breath until I realize I’m lightheaded and I take in a careful breath.

             I risk looking at him, but I find Master Bruce is frozen in the bathroom doorway. One hand grips the wooden frame with brutal strength whitening the knuckles to bone. The other is fisted at his side. He’s not facing me, but I can see from the tension coiling his muscles that he’s slipping away from me and going where I can’t follow. It causes a trill of fear to pool in my stomach.

            “Master Bruce,” I say soft and non-threatening, keeping my distance, though every instinct I have demands that I go to him and tug him back to me physically. The newer scars on his frame, in jagged ugly pinks, are a reminder to stay put. The leaner quality to his back and shoulders and legs, are a reminder it wasn’t that long ago that he was a skeletal child, terrified and alone. So, I stay in place and wait until the waiting threatens to drive me mad. “Master Bruce, can I—”

             “I’m fine,” he whispers, head dipping as he draws in deep breaths, long and grounding. He’s trembling from head to toe. I itch to move. To do something. Anything. “I’m fine.”

             “Would you like me to leave?”

              His head jerks up and the wood beneath his left hand groans, “No. Please just—just stay.”

               “Of course.”

               He looks over a shoulder and I can see he’s more present than he’s been the entirety of my being here. His eyes are luminous and dark, pupils wide and eating up all the color. If I were to describe his expression, it would be somewhere between terror and desolation.

               “Thank you.”

                I swallow thickly, nodding my head, “I will be right here. You can leave the door open.” 

                He nods, sharp and jerky, glancing back into the steamy depths of the bathroom. I know he doesn’t want me to see the shudder that wracks his frame, but I do. I try not to hover by the door when he finally enters, and instead focus on changing the sheets and arranging his clothes. But l can’t mistake the sound of soft sobs breaking over the shower’s hum. It tightens every muscle in my body and seizes like a fist around my throat. I have to stop what I’m doing and breathe through the desire to rush in and make it better. It would be unhelpful. It would do more damage.

                It would make the ache in my chest better.

                But I do nothing. I do nothing because it’s what he needs me to do. Because it is not my place.

                But I can hear the manor weeping with him.

**Diana**

                “How is he? How has he been?”

                I look up from the printed mission brief that Clark has handed out to everyone and feel the lies come to my mouth easier than they should. “He’s doing wonderfully.”

                Barry grins, “So, he’ll be back soon?”

                I resist the urge to share a heavy look with Clark and instead smile at the group, “Absolutely. He’ll be back soon. But he wants to be ready. So, he’s going slow.”

                “Of course,” J’onn says softly, his eyes roving over me in a way that says he sees right through my words. And if he does, I don’t blame him for looking. He’s one of the only members in the League aside from myself and Clark that know the full extent of the damage done to Bruce. The League was of course, aware of how he was found, tortured and gravely mistreated. But it was not made known just how badly.

                The League has suffered without the Batman. Aside from being the strategist of our group, he is a glue that we often take for granted. If something needs doing, he is there to offer a solution. He rarely if ever says no. If there is a problem or a personal concern, he makes it his business to know. He makes it his mission to correct the issue.

                He states he has no powers. That he is only human.

                But the man has the League wrapped around his finger and always has. We might use Clark as our figurehead, but we answer to Bruce. We look to him when the chips are down to come up with our solution.

                He has been gravely missed.

                “Let’s get started on the mission brief.”

                I’m thankful to Clark for drawing the attention away from Bruce and I force my mind to the brief. It’s more than a struggle, it’s almost impossible. When I left the manor this morning, Bruce was curled into himself after another night of sweat-slicked terrors and muffled screams. He’d hardly even looked at me when I’d pressed a kiss to his head. His eyes had been glazed and his mouth slack. His body the only sign that he was still alive. Still surviving.

                He’s been devolving since the Fortress.

                I knew this was a possibility. How could I not? It was likely too soon. Then again, would it ever not be? To face one’s tormentors, to see them again, brought everything blistering to the surface. And its different this time. Because he is still himself. He is still aware of who he is and what he is, but right beside it, there are the memories of everything they did to him. Whatever box he’d managed to put them in, before seeing those men in the Fortress, has broken. He can’t seem to put the lid back on.

                I don’t blame him. His fear is so palpable at night it sends gooseflesh down my arms and into my very soul. It makes me itch to correct the problem. To erase the filth that caused it in the first place.

                “Diana?”

                I blink up from the crumpled brief in my hands, and see Clark watching me. His brows are lifted in question, but his eyes say he knows. He understands. He is right there with me. “I apologize.”

                “No need. We’re nearly done. Does anyone have anything to add?”

                Barry eyes me over his own copy, “Umm, could we talk about the fridge in the cafeteria acting up? My lunch got ruined the other day when I was on monitor duty because it shut off for six hours.”

                “I heard about that and we’ve hired someone to come in. It should be fixed after today.”

                “Cool,” Barry smiles, eyes warm enough to melt chocolate, “thanks.”

                “Anyone else?” Clark asks, the picture of calm and in control. No one else sees the way his shoulders aren’t as far back as they normally are. No one else sees the strain at the corners of his mouth or the smudges beneath his eyes. He’s not been sleeping anymore than I have. Than any of us have. “Well, if that’s it, the meeting is adjourned. I’d like to meet separately with Hal and Barry later today to go over the finer points on the mission before you go off-world.”

                “Sure thing,” Hal nods, then jogs to catch up with Barry and J’onn who are already halfway down the hall.

                We wait until the room is empty to speak and as I suspected, I am not the first to break the silence. Clark stacks his notes together, stuffing them in a binder, then moves to join me with a sigh that sounds as weary as he looks.

                “This gets harder every day.”

                “Without him, you mean?”

                Clark shrugs, “Yes. We made this place together. It’s his more than anyone’s. And without him, it all feels—”

                “Empty,” I finish for him, closing the distance between us to wrap my arms tightly around Clark. He accepts the embrace with equal fervor and I’m grateful for it. I’m grateful that he smells just the same, like sunshine and Dial soap. I’m thankful that Clark is warm and solid and unchanged. He is the same, despite everything else being different.

                “He’s going to push through.”

                “Yes,” I agree, but my throat is trying to close, and the word comes out roughly, “Of course he is. He’s Bruce.”

                Clark laughs, and the sound is a deep rumble beneath my ear. I close my eyes and try to savor the sound. To let it permeate all the places in me that feel cold and useless.

                “I wish I could do more.”

                “You’re doing everything you can, Diana.”

                It doesn’t feel like I am. “Did we screw up? In letting him go to the Fortress? He was doing better and then—”

                “No,” Clark’s arms tighten around me, “No. I think this was going to happen no matter what. He needs to face them, one way or another. Seeing them like that, will be good for him, in the end. He just needs time to work through it.”

                “You believe that.”

                Clark nods and I can feel his breath ruffling my hair, “I have to.”

                We remain locked together for long minutes. Long enough my heart slows and I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in days. Than I’ve been since the Fortress.

                “When will the prisoners be transferred?” the question slips out of me, like an errant thought. But it’s been on my mind, a festering irritation that needs removal. I have to know. Because I want them gone. I want them taken care of. The sooner the better. Then we might truly move forward.

                Clark hesitates, drawing me back enough to stare down at me. His brow wrinkles, “I think Bruce needs to tell me when.”

                “He isn’t in any position.”

                “Exactly. We wait till he is. It will mean more. It will help him to have that control. His word will be what puts them away for life.”

                “Clark,” I swallow, stepping further back to stare at him, “What about his identity? How will we keep it a secret when we turn them in? How will all of this work?”

                His jaw flexes, “I don’t know.”

                “Do you think Bruce has thought of this? Does he understand that if we take those men to prison, everything will come out? Even if we manage to get the courts to keep everything sealed, there will be a jury. People talk, they always have. It will get leaked.”

                “I’m sure it’s occurred to him.”

                I sigh, “And made everything, that much worse.”

                “Yes.”

                “God, Clark, what are we going to do?”

                Clark shakes his head, “I don’t know. But I wish I did. I wish I knew how to make this better.”

 

**Damian**

I know how to make it better. I understand what needs to be done.

                No one will listen to me. No one understands. But I do.

                Because I’ve seen this before and I’ve seen the solution to it.

                Emotions aside, this is the best solution for Father. Drake did what I expected him to do. He folded and caved to the pressure of morality and was weak. He agreed with Todd and Grayson. This should not have surprised me.

                But to some degree it did.

                How can they sit upon ceremony and see how Father is suffering and not do the right thing? How can they stand unaffected and decide they know best? That Father even knows best, considering his mental state?

                He knows nothing but suffering. He knows only pain.

                I hear him at night. I hear the screams and they bring me to such a rage I’ve had no choice but to leave the manor or risk destroying everything in my room. I’ve been coiled so tightly, like a filthy dog, slavering on the end of its chain that it sickens me.

                I thought I’d come to terms with what happened to Father. I thought I’d understood how my feelings would play out and I was doing well enough. I was prepared to handle this new version of Father, because there were no other options.

                But there is another option. Father has the chance to feel safe again. To feel whole.

                I cannot deny him this. He may not be asking me directly to do it, but if he could, he would.

                I’m going to the Fortress and I’m going to get those men. And when I return with them gift-wrapped for Father, I’m going make sure that this all ends. Once and for all.  


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for not updating as quickly as I usually do. I actually had a couple health things come up for myself and it's been a bit of a struggle. There was an particularly difficult anniversary for a lost loved one in there too. But I'm doing a little better now, though I've got a ways to go. So, thanks for the patience folks. 
> 
> On another note, I think we are nearing the end of this fic. Maybe a couple more chapters. I'm guessing probably three to get it where I want it. I uploaded this as soon as it was finished, so I'm betting I missed a few mistakes. I'll go back and fix them later. So, please forgive that.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Ya'll are the best.

**Dick**

“C’mon, have you seen him?”

                _“Why the hell would I have seen the little runt, Dick? I don’t keep track of him.”_

I pinch the bridge of my nose to quell the rising ache that wants to turn into a migraine and blow out a controlled breath, “Jay, I just called because I’m starting to worry. Nobody has seen him and he was really upset last night.”

                _“Kid needs to learn when to let shit go. He was outvoted. End of story.”_

“You know Damian doesn’t work like that.”

                _“Straight up honest, I don’t care.”_

“Yeah, sure.”

                Jason cares. He cares about as much as I do but he likes to pretend he doesn’t because he thinks it will put enough buffer between himself and the rest of us. But that isn’t the way life works.

                “Look, Jay, could you come over and help me? I’m going to start combing through the city.”

                _“Maybe he needs space.”_

“Then he should have left a goddamn note. He’s got everyone worried.”

                _“You told Bruce?”_

I snort, rolling my eyes, “No. I’m not an idiot. He doesn’t need the extra stress right now. He’s—not talking to anyone right now anyways. He’s been keeping to himself.”

                A thick pause, then, _“Yeah. I know. He just needs time. Heals all wounds, right?”_

“Right…you’ll come over though?”

                _“Jeez Dickie, you think I’m a heartless prick? Yeah, I’ll come over. I left ten minutes ago.”_

I shake my head, smiling into the phone. “Asshole.”

                _“Best looking asshole you’ll ever lay eyes on. See you in twenty.”_

“Thanks Jay.”

                I slip my phone back into my jean’s pocket and stride through the kitchen and down the long hall that will take me to where Alfred has stationed himself in the study. When I step in, he’s seated at Bruce’s laptop and has a phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder.

                “Yes,” Alfred murmurs, “Yes, thank you.”

                I lift a brow when Alfred hangs up then jots down a few notes in a wide-ruled notebook. “Master Damian has stolen the credit card.”

                I blink at Alfred, “Bruce’s platinum? The big one?”

                “That would be the one.”

                “What’s he buying?”

                Alfred’s gaze is sharp as a blade when it lands on me and I feel the shiver rush up over my head and down my frame like someone breathing down the back of my t-shirt. Damian can be reckless and emotional. He can be frighteningly loyal and absurdly illogical when something threatens what he’s deemed worthy of his loyalty.

                There is nothing and no one that Damian is more loyal to than Bruce. Not even me.  

                “He’s bought himself a plane ticket.”

                Dread burrows into my middle.

                “To where?”

                The answer shouldn’t make my throat want to close. I shouldn’t feel like I’m going to vomit. But I do, because I already know before he says anything. I already know. How could I not know what Damian is going to do? I knew last night when he visibly flinched as Tim finally gave us his decision.

                Deep down, I knew he was going to do something foolish. He was going to do something.  

                “Barentsburg, Svalbard.”

                Oh God.

                Bruce can’t find out. He can’t know what Damian is up to. He can’t know that I’m actively failing in what he asked to do. One simple request on a rooftop. He’d looked so lost and hurt. So afraid of the fact that he couldn’t stop us, even if he wanted to. And I’d promised him.

                I’d said I would try. 

                But with Bruce it’s never that simple, is it? It’s never just, ‘Don’t let them do something stupid.’ It’s, ‘Follow your younger brother to the arctic circle and prevent him from committing revenge murder for me.’

                “Jesus Christ.”

                Alfred’s mouth compresses into a white line and I flinch internally at the slip. “Yes, I feel much the same. What do you think he is doing?”

                “I’m not positive. But I have a pretty good idea. What’s his lead time?”

                Alfred looks down at the pad of paper and his brow wrinkles, “I’m afraid it looks like he left at midnight. He must have snuck out.”

                It takes a great deal of effort not to start cussing up a storm again. It takes an equal amount of effort not to start panicking. He’s got almost a twenty-four-hour lead on us. If he isn’t already at the Fortress, he will be shortly. He has the stamina to hike his way in and just enough terrifying ferocity to suffer any number of hiccups on his way. If Damian has set his mind to something, he’ll do it.

                “I need to call Clark.”

                “That would be the best solution.”

                It’s the only solution at this point. Clark is the only one who can get to the Fortress and into it fast enough to stop Damian from killing those two men. He’s our best bet.

                “I won’t say anything to Master Bruce just yet.”

                “No.”

                We stare at each other, a silent communication that feels awful and heavy with the tangible ache of fear lingering in the air.

“You don’t suppose he would do it, do you?” Alfred’s voice is paper thin and wobbles, like a leaf in the wind. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look his age. Frail. It makes that vomit want to crawl back up my throat.

                “I don’t know, Alf. He’s Damian.”

                “Yes,” Alfred agrees, absently adjusting his already perfect tie, “Yes, he is.”

 

 

**Jason**

                “Are you serious?”

                “Yes.”

                “He’s—”

                Dick paces past me again, the veins in his forehead standing so far out of his skin, it looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. I’m very tempted to poke one.

                “You called Clark already?”

                Dick nods, “Yes. I tried to. I couldn’t get through so I patched in to the Watchtower and it turns out he and Diana went off on a little mission. Off-world. They won’t be back for two days.”

                “Fuck.”

                Dick snorts, “How eloquent of you? Meanwhile, I’ve been scrambling to get the private jet ready and we leave in an hour. I hope you brought an overnight bag, because you’re a little bigger than me and I think my pants will look like capris on you.”

                For a very, very brief moment, I just stare at Dick. Because Dick has this way about him where he off-loads shit tons of information very quickly when he’s stressed, and it sort of comes out in a jumble. Then I’m frowning at him, “If he’s going to kill them, it’s likely already done. Or will be soon. We should stay here.”

                “What?” Dick stops pacing and I know when he whirls and offers me a deadly neutral expression that I’ve mis-stepped. We haven’t gotten into a scrape in some time. But from that look he’s giving me, I have no doubt that he’s primed for one.

                “You heard me Dickie,” I shrug, working for nonchalance, though the space between my shoulder blades twitches with irritation. I haven’t been in a good brawl in a while and it would be good to have it out, but I don’t really want to hurt Dick. And I would. Then again, he’d heard me too. So, it might be a fair draw.

                Dick takes a soft breath. Then another, then relaxes fractionally when he closes his eyes. “Bruce made me promise.”

                “For fuck’s sake, Dick.”

                “He asked me to make sure nobody did anything stupid. He knew. I don’t know how he knew, except that he knows everything. But he knew what we were talking about; that it was a possibility. He didn’t want it.”

                There’s a small part of me that feels vindicated in my stance on the argument. A small part of me that also feels pretty damn good that we decided _not_ to kill the bastards that violated Bruce. But then the crystal-clear image of Damian neatly slicing their throats open makes me feel a little sick to my stomach and I have to roll my shoulders to dispel the revulsion.

                Bruce would be horrified. Any progress, anything good he’s managed to glean in the last weeks of his recovery would vanish. Maybe for good. He would never forgive himself.  

                “How are we going to fix this Jay? How am I going to fix this?” Dick is looking at me again, his eyes gone just a tad wet and frightened, “I don’t how to make this better. I should have kept a better eye on Damian after our meeting. I should have made sure he was alright and that he wasn’t going to go and do something like this. I should have—”

                “Stop.”

                I’ve moved without thought and I’m blocking his path, one hand gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise. “Breathe, Dickie. Take a deep breath.”

                He obeys but I can see the shimmering of panic in his gaze still. I’ve never seen him like this. And it’s making me want to bolt. Worse, it’s making me feel like I should be panicking too, and I don’t do _panic_. Not anymore. Not ever. So, we need to take it down a few notches and think this through logically because if Bruce were here, he would have already figured out what to do. He’d separate the emotion from the facts and figure it the fuck out.

                I’m fairly confident he’d give us similar advice. Maybe without the expletives.

                “Who else do we know who could possibly help us?”

                “If you’re right, and Damian has already killed—”

                “Focus Dick. It could take Damian longer than you think. How is he planning on getting into the Fortress? It’s not like he can just pick a lock.”

                Dick’s harsh sigh sends gooseflesh bracketing my arms and legs, because it sounds like the precursor to more bad news. I’m not wrong.

“Jon.”

                “What?”

                “Jon,” Dick has started pacing again, tearing out of my grip and looks frantic. “Jon would have given him the way in. He would have done it to help. To be a friend. He may not even know what he’s helping with.”

                “Wonderful.”

                Dick stops abruptly at the windows of the study and goes ramrod stiff, his hands fisting. “But he’s fast.”

                I purse my lips, “If you’re suggesting we send a superpowered teenager after our homicidal teenage brother—”

                Dick nods, clapping his hands together. “That is exactly what I am suggesting. Jon is as fast as Superman. Fast enough to get there in time maybe. And he should be home from school any minute.”

                “Lois won’t go for it.”

                “It’s just Damian. Damian would never hurt Jon.”

                I lift a brow, “This is Damian we are talking about.”

                Dick hesitates, then shakes his head. “We don’t have a choice. I’m limited on options. We can’t contact anyone else in the league without information getting out about what Clark has been up to in hiding those prisoners and why they are so important.”

                “And Bruce? We’re still not telling him anything?”

                Dick looks so pale it hurts to look at him. It’s a struggle not to either cross the room and hug him or tell him to rub some dirt on it or something. Anything to make that stricken beat dog look wipe off his face.

                “Not yet. If we can stop Damian without telling him, that would be better.”

                “And if we can’t?”

                Dick swallows visibly, helplessly shrugging, “Then we deal with it when the shit hits the fan.”

 

               

 

**Bruce**

My knuckles split like a grape on the heavy bag and I don’t feel it.

                I feel nothing. Numbness tingles and spreads from my center to the farthest reaches of my limbs and I welcome the sensation because it’s better than the alternative. It’s better than the fear. It’s better than the weakness that has done nothing but torment me relentlessly.

                I’m not eating again. I’ve lost a handful of pounds and my sweats are dipping perilously on my hipbones. I don’t know what I look like in a mirror, but I’ll bet my dark circles have circles. I’ve not been sleeping either.

                I hit the bag again. And again. And again. I hit the bag until I’m sobbing for air, swinging sluggishly, with no real power behind the hits. I’ve been at it for an hour. It shouldn’t surprise me that my muscles are trying to give up. It shouldn’t feel like there’s more than just my physical limitations stopping me.

                It does.

                It’s like I’m wearing shackles around my ankles and wrists. Their weight drags me to the floor and anchors me to the earth mercilessly. Hitting the bag harder doesn’t help, working myself into the ground doesn’t help. Nothing is helping and I don’t know how much longer I can go on doing this, surviving one day to the next to the next and suddenly I can’t breathe.

                I can’t breathe.

                Not just because I’m out of breath, but because I actually can’t breathe. I feel those thick roughened fingers wrapped about my throat, cutting off my air and I’m paralyzed. I’m just lying here, taking it.

                Doing nothing.

                Lying? I was standing—I was—I’m not there. I’m here. I’m—

                _Weak, aren’t you? Tired? Give in. That’s right, let yourself enjoy it. There you go. That’s right, relax a little. See? Better, isn’t it? Feels good. Make a little noise for me._

                Something between a muted scream and a roar makes its way up my throat and I’m unprepared when the heavy bag swings back from its arc and smacks me in the side of the head. I go down like a sack of potatoes and blink stupidly as my vision goes white for a moment.

                _Subject has an interesting response to this serum. Increasing dose to thirty milliliters._

I’m scrambling away from the dark figure looming overhead, the one swaying towards me, but I can’t see where I’m going, and I end up hitting a wall and the panic clamps over my middle so hard I do scream. It tears out of my throat like I’m being kicked in the gut. Once I’ve started screaming, I can’t stop. It comes pouring out of me in violent waves and I’m shaking so hard and I can’t breathe and I might die.

                I’m going to die here. This is where I die. I know it. He’s going to finish me this time. Make it permanent. No more pretend.  

                _Shhhh. Too loud. Quiet. We don’t want Mr. Bossy pants to hear us, do you? Don’t scream. I’ll make it good._

“Stop,” I force out the word and grope blindly at the wall, not seeing the smooth brick or anything but that face looming over me. I can’t smell the sweat on my skin or the copper of the blood from my knuckles now smeared on my face. All I can smell is rotten eggs and cigarettes. Alcohol. Hot breath. Rough hands, dragging me close, asking me my name over and over and I can’t tell him because I don’t remember who I am. Because I’m nothing. I’m no one.

                I’m sitting in something wet. Will they drown me? Is that next? Or did I throw up? I don’t remember. I throw up a lot and it makes him very angry with me. Maybe I peed. I don’t remember that either though.

                “Bruce!”

                I jerk hard and then on instinct shrink inwards and tighten up to protect my myself. I don’t have a weapon, so this is my weapon. The terror is fading, and I recognize it for acceptance. I recognize it and I welcome it. It’s better to accept.

                Hurts less. Hurts less when you accept.

                _All you’re good for. You’re a little whore, aren’t you? You fucking like this. You fucking love this._

“Bruce!”

                “S—stop,” I chatter, sealing the blurry edges of shapes and shadows behind my eyelids. “I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. I promise. I will.”

                “Bruce!”

                “Shhhh,” I smile weakly, “Too loud. Quiet. We don’t want to get caught.”

                Blackness swims up over my head and I feel grateful I won’t feel the pain till I wake up. It’s better this way.

 

                I wake up in stages.

                I recognize my bedroom. I recognize the curtains swaying in the afternoon breeze and the French doors spread wide to let in the fresh air. I always liked having fresh air when I worked. I haven’t sat at my desk to do real work in so long I don’t think I could if I tried. There is something tremendously surreal about returning to oneself after having suffered a lapse in reality and self.

                For a little bit there, I wasn’t me. I was the other me. The baser self, like they talk about in psych books that resembles a crinkly naked vulnerable old man. All my soft fragile places were exposed, and I wasn’t me. I was something else entirely.  

                I had a flashback. I know it because I feel like I weigh a thousand pounds. I feel treacherously weak and spread so thin I should tear. Humans should not be spread this thin. They shouldn’t live to be spread this thin. It’s not the first time I wonder if it would have been better had I merely died before being found.

                I roll in bed and assess the damages. Not many.

                My hands hurt. But I was hitting that damn bag for an hour before it hit me. So, I know that’s the main culprit. The side of my head is a little tender, but nothing worthy of note. Physically, I am as well as can be expected. I’m fine.

                I look around the room at all things that belong to me and Diana. All the items that we’ve collected or added. At her slippers by the bathroom door. Her nightgown hanging out of the hamper from when she left the day before. There a couple framed photos on our dresser. One with just us from a couple years ago. One with all of us, boys included and Alfred. A JLA photo that I originally banned then reneged when I realized how much it meant to both of us to have it.

                I’ll never be fine again.

                When Alfred brings me soup and a glass of water with some Advil, it isn’t a surprise. When Tim comes shuffling into my room an hour later with a grim expression on his face and his arms folded over his middle, it is.

                “Tim?” I ask roughly, and my voice comes out in a croak. I haven’t seen anyone in almost a week. I’ve been avoiding as much contact as possible.

                “Are you—feeling a little better?”

                “Yes.”

                No. It doesn’t really matter.

                “I was the one who found you in the weight room.”

                I blink at him, struggle not to feel the heat of that statement and the subsequent shame that wants to color me red but fail. I have to look away before speaking. “I see. Thank you for helping me.”

                “I wish I could have done more. I think I made it worse.”

                “I doubt that.”

                Tim shrugs, “Can I get you anything?”

                “No, thank you.”

                I should ask about everyone else. I should ask how they are all fairing, since I’ve been hiding. But I don’t because I don’t want to cry in front of Tim and I just might if I keep talking. So, I say nothing. When Tim just keeps standing there though, I wonder if he has something else he wants to say. Or if he just doesn’t know what do either. It’s not an uncommon problem for many of the men in this family.

                “Is there something else?”

                “I—I just wanted you to know that—”

                My brows lift, and I wait, but he doesn’t finish. He looks lost for a moment then swallows convulsively. “Never mind.”

                “Are you sure?”

                “Yes. Sorry. It can wait. You need rest.”

                “Timothy, if you need me—”

                “No. No. Rest. I’ll tell you tomorrow. Later. It’ll be fine.”

                It’s a struggle to keep my eyes open when he leaves a few minutes later. It feels like I haven’t slept in ages, but I know that all I’ve been doing lately is resting and sleeping. Diana would help me out of bed and remind me to eat. It’s been too long.

                Diana isn’t here. I wish she was.

                I roll over and fall back asleep.

                I wake up sometime in the middle of the night to the sound of scraping. Like nails scratching on wood and it makes me shiver beneath the comforters. I curl in tighter to myself, prepared to ignore the sound, which is likely a branch scraping on a window, but I can’t quite seem to shut it out.

                When I open my eyes finally and scan the room its dark as soot and there isn’t a trace of light.

                For a brief unfamiliar moment, I feel the slither of fear rake down my middle. I was never really afraid of the dark as a child before my parents were murdered. After, I suffered immensely with it. I had to sleep with nightlights for ages. I got rid of the nightlights Clark installed in my bedroom a week ago.

                I wish I hadn’t. It was too soon. The dark reminds me of the pit and makes the memories too close.

                The scratching keeps up on the doors and I stiffen when the scratching abruptly stops and then someone is opening my door.

                Whisper soft feet padding. One step. Two steps. Three steps. I count the rest of them to my bed to calm the thundering of my heart in my ears and temples. But I’m already searching out the familiar touch of cool alien fabric I still haven’t removed from my nightstand and by the time I see the figure approach my bed, I’ve got in hand.

                “Father, are you awake?”

                “Damian?” I whisper, relief flooding me so fast and hard that I feel faint from it. I sink back into my pillows and grip the piece of Clark’s cape in my hand tighter. “What are you doing sneaking around like that?”

                “I need you to come with me Father.”

                “What?” I ask, eyes glancing sharply at the lithe cut of shadow he’s making on my bed. “What are you talking about?”

                “I have something I need to show you. Quickly.”

                “Damian, what are talking about?”

                “Please. Trust me Father.”

                “Damian,” I start to say, but I’m already sitting up, already moving to find my slippers and robe. It doesn’t really matter what time of night it is or that I’m not going to let go of the piece of cape till sunlight blasts through the manor’s windows. Damian’s voice has something unsettling running through it. Something that’s making my hackles rise to attention and my gut shrivel.

                I’m almost certain whatever it is, I won’t like it.

                “Here,” he grabs my hand and helps me stand, “I’ll show you the way.”

                “Where are we going?”

                He turns to look at me again, something tightening his brow that shouldn’t be. An emotion too dark or too old for his face maybe. “You’ll see.”   


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already warned for a lot of this with the tags, however, be forewarned--this chapter includes flashbacks from rape, some mild gore and death.

**Damian**

The grass bends silently under our shoes and I walk hand in hand with Father beneath a wash of cloud-covered night. The moon is hidden, completely smothered and it hides our movement on the grounds. Makes what we are doing and where we are going, that much more surreal.

                I slipped back into the manor unnoticed. Not even Alfred stirred from his bed. Even though I am certain they found the breadcrumbs of information I didn’t bother to hide about my whereabouts, it is doubtful they understand my full motives. It is doubtful they know what I plan and why.

                Only Father might. Or perhaps Diana.

                Over the course of the last two days, time has slowed for me. I knew what I was doing and why. I acted accordingly. It had taken a great deal of planning, fortitude and strength. I asked for help from Jonathan and he helped. But I’ve primarily accomplished this mission, all on my own.

                I do not feel the high of success in my blood or taste the victory I want in the back of my mouth.

                I feel—cold.

                Strangely disconnected from my body as I lead Father further into the darkness and away from the manor. The Wayne property abuts Gotham Bay at its furthermost edge and I can smell the brine in the air, teasing and tantalizing. If it were daytime, gulls would be crooning, heralding how close we are to the water. As it is, silence only reigns. And with it, a feeling of anticipation thick enough it could be cut with a dagger.

                We walk carefully. Picking our way deeper into the woods that sprout up where the manicured lawns end and I feel Father’s hand tighten in my own. Anticipation too? Fear? I don’t know which. I should feel something about that. I don’t.

                I can’t hear anything save my heartbeat throbbing in my ears. We’re nearly there.

                “Damian?” Father whispers, breaking the silence when we come within a hundred yards of the little carriage house left abandoned and dusty that I’ve been leading him to. “What are we doing here?”

                I stop, my hand slipping from his grasp, not looking at his face. I can’t. I don’t want my own feelings or lack of them to color this experience for him.

                “I’ve done something.”

                “Damian…” there is a low warning note in his voice, one I’ve heard before. It comforts me to hear it and I close my eyes, breathing in the scents of woodlands and brine, trying to ground myself. It’s nearly over. It’s nearly complete. I’ve done the right thing. I know I have.

                It must be right.

                “Go inside the carriage house. It is unlocked. I’ve left you something inside.”

                Father’s breath stutters and I crack open my eyes to slits to watch his reaction. He looks pale and shadowy, withered in the harsh glare of night. He doesn’t look quite like himself.

                Maybe that makes this easier. Maybe it makes it better.

                “Take this,” I whisper, throat suddenly wanting to close. I extend the handle of the knife I brought. The pesh-kabz is a specialized dagger given to me by Grandfather too many years ago now. I’ve kept it safe and cleaned and taken it out occasionally to think on. To wonder about what I might have been had my life taken another path. I’ve always felt grateful for Father’s intervening in my life when I look at the knife. I’ve always felt—love. It seems fitting that he take the knife and finish his battle with it. It only seems natural for him to be reborn by his own hands and the blood of his enemies. I know it isn’t his way. Not naturally anyways. But it is _the_ way. It will save him.

                _There is no other way._

                “Damian?”

                “You will need it. Please, take it.”

                “I don’t understand Damian. You’re—” Father swallows audibly, his frame going so rigid he could be a statue. “You’re scaring me.”

                “I know. Go inside and you will see. Please, Father.”

                I can’t really see his face. I can’t see the indecision or the fear, but I can feel it. I can taste it, bitter and burning in the air. Like ozone crackling.

                He takes the pesh-kabz and grips it hard. Hard enough I can hear the leather wrappings groan and feel the tremor that runs the length of his arm. He says nothing else. But I can feel his eyes on me in the darkness. I can feel the weight of them, a physical press that grounds my feet to the grass and pine needles. It makes me feel lightheaded and weak. Frail.

                Fearful.

                I swallow thickly but say nothing either. Comfort will be later. When the deed is done.

                Father stays a moment longer, breathing heavily, gripping the dagger in his right hand, staring vacantly at the carriage house. Then he starts walking towards it. And I sit heavily on the forest floor to wait.

                That’s all there is left to do. Wait.

 

**Diana**

 

                Clark is pacing, his hands flexing in and out of deadly fists and I can only catch snippets of the terse conversation going on over the commlink. But it is damning enough.

                I was a fool. I should not have left. I knew he was a in a delicate position and was not himself. I knew Bruce was struggling, that all the boys were too, but at the time, I had felt they might need space from me. I had thought Bruce in particular, could use a moment without my hovering. Or Clark.

                Foolish. Reckless. Careless.

                “Where is he now?”

                A long drawn-out pause.

                Clark’s eyes close and he pinches the bridge of his nose as he stops at the controls to the Javelin. He looks more weary than I can ever recall seeing him. Worn thin by the months of searching for Bruce and then the subsequent months trying to heal him. Trying to recover the man we both knew _before_. Time has etched the lines into his perfect face like cracks in granite.

                “You don’t know,” Clark whispers the words, says them like a prayer hushed over the deadly silence in the Javelin and gooseflesh ripples along my arms and legs.

                Don’t know what? Where is who? Bruce? Damian? Dick, Tim, or Jason?  

                “Clark?” I manage past the tightness in my throat, the trill of abrupt fear lancing my middle. I need answers.

                He taps his ear, disconnecting the line, then grips the Captain’s chair in front of him with brutal force. His shoulders are hunched in, bowed down by whatever he doesn’t want to tell me and I will myself not to fidget. To wait patiently for an update. Nothing good can come of panicking. Though at present, it feels natural to do so.

                “It seems a lot has happened while we’ve been away.”

                “Tell me.”

                He sighs, glancing over a shoulder at me, the blue of his eyes so blue they hurt to look at, “Damian has been missing for two days. He bought a plane ticket to the arctic circle.”

                 “What?”

                Clark nods, jaw flexing, “My son helped him get into the Fortress. To McMillan and Thames.”

                “Oh gods,” I’m standing now, body strung up with rippling coils of tension. The need to act is so strong I’m vibrating with it. “What has he done? Tell me Clark. What has he done?”

                “I don’t know.”

                “How can you not know?”           

                “Diana—” he breathes sharply through his nose, clearly trying to reign his temper in. I am vaguely aware of the fact that his anger is not directed at me. But at Damian. And Jonathan. “I don’t know, because he took them.”

                “He took them,” I repeat dumbly, confused and suddenly taken back, “He did not—” kill them? Torture them? Destroy them?

                “Not there.”

                “But elsewhere.”

                “Perhaps.”

                I blink at him, swallow thickly, “You suspect something else is at play.”

                Clark nods and his eyes go hollow and watery, “Yes. I think Damian is planning something else. And we are a full twenty-hours from Earth. We won’t make it in time.”

                “You can’t be certain—”

                He shakes his head, “I can. I’ve known Damian since Bruce took him in. If he wants something, if he puts his mind to a mission or decides there is a reason that matches his moral code to act, nothing will stop him,” Clark scrubs both hands down his face, “There is nothing we can do.”

                “The boys.”

                “They are looking for him.”

                “And Bruce?”

                Clark shakes his head, “It’s late there. Middle of the night. He doesn’t need to know anything till the morning. Damian has been missing for forty-eight hours. Those men are already dead or will be soon.”

                “Why would he wait? Why would he take them from the Fortress and not kill them right away?”

                Clark has moved to sit heavily in the Captain’s chair, only his profile visible. I try to picture Damian as a killer, as the lethal assassin he was raised to be and struggle to correlate the image with the boy I’ve grown to love. He can be vicious on occasion. Bitter and rigid, but much has changed in all the years he’s been living with Bruce. He loves his father. He loves his brothers and the battle for justice in Gotham. He is the first to intone Bruce’s strict mantra of ‘Justice not Vengeance’. Would he go so far from what Bruce taught him? Would he turn his back on everything he believes now?

                The answer is quite simple. I am a warrior at heart. I do not cringe from bloodshed or hide from it. I often understand it better than I do the desire to give mercy. Particularly in cases where the crimes committed are heinous enough to warrant a swift execution, such as with Thames and McMillan.

                The fact that I understand Damian, does not make what he’s done any easier.

                Yes, Damian would kill them. If he felt it was the only option. If Damian was certain that killing those men was the answer to a question he’d been asking. He would kill them.

                But that doesn’t feel quite right either. It doesn’t feel—

                Abruptly, Clark sucks in a breath, shoving to a stand, and I jerk from my thoughts.

                “What?”

                “My God,” Clark hisses, tapping his commlink, his eyes a mask of horror, “Dick?”

                I can’t hear what Dick says. I can’t hear anything over my own panicked breathing. Something like acid is burning through my veins, flooding the toxin into my muscles making me shake. Clark’s panic is palpable.

                “Dick, I know what he’s doing. Wake up Bruce. Right now.”

                There are long seconds of tarry stillness. Insidious black silk flowing over and between, penetrating every space between us. Seconds move sluggishly, our hearts hammer together. I watch Clark and Clark watches me and we wait with baited breath. Fear ratchets up, though for what, I still don’t know, climbing to an impossible level and all I can think about is how I never should have left Bruce alone. I never should have been off-world in the first place. I should be at home. In bed with Bruce. I should be beside him, holding him, protecting him.

               “What’s happening?” I whisper, wary of speaking. Unsure of what I’m trying to avoid.

                Silence again.

                Clark’s shaking, not from fear. But anger. His eyes are bleeding into red, swallowing up the blue greedily.

                “Bruce is missing,” Clark hisses, clearly for me and not Dick who is still on the other side of the commlink, relaying information.

                I blanch as pieces begin clicking together and Damian’s actions, his motives, his reasonings filter through my thoughts. Realization dawns and then feels leaden in my middle. “Oh gods. Oh Damian, no.”

                Damian wouldn’t kill them himself. Of course, he wouldn’t. That wouldn’t solve the problem. That wouldn’t take care of the gnawing fear and brokenness in Bruce. In Damian’s mind, there is only one solution. There is only one way out of Bruce’s hell. Bruce must empower himself. He must end it all by his own hand.

                Clark’s eyes are full red now. And we can do nothing. We are too far away. We will never make it in time. Clark was right.

                The boys are on their own. I’ve never felt more helpless or angry. Never felt more conflicting emotions tumbling into one another. I don’t know whether to scream or to cry.

                “Find him, Dick. Find him right now.”

 

**Bruce**

I suppose there is a part of me that knows what I will find when I open the door to the carriage house. How could I not know?

                Damian told me as much. The knife in my hand, Damian’s knife, is telling me the truth, whispering softly into my ears.

                _Inside. Go Inside._

_See._

_Finish it._

_End it._

                The whispers are enticing. They promise freedom from the hell I’ve been living. Freedom from the ghosts that cling to my skin and claw at my insides. But right beside it, there are whispers of destruction. There are promises to hurt me. To maim me. To make me writhe in agony and I’m trembling with fear. Skin slicked with sweat and freezing me to the core. My body is moving without conscious thought.

                I’m not in control.

                I can’t seem to stop myself. I can’t—I have to—

                Ice cold fingers wrap around the metal door handle and get stuck, locked in position. I can’t let go. I can’t keep moving. The terror is so thick in my throat that I’m choking on it. I can’t get in a good breath and I’m—I need—I don’t know if I can—

                I close my eyes, focus on my breathing, focus on getting in a breath because I’m feeling so lightheaded I might crumple right here at the door.

                _Weak little thing. Look at you. Pathetic._

I grit my teeth, inch the door handle to the right and the latch pops open. I just need to keep moving. I just need to make my feet work.

                There is a driving perpetual force, slamming in the back of my skull, demanding that I keep moving. That I go see what Damian wants me to see. I have to. I _need_ to.

                The door creaks open, loud and brazen and the whispers climb into a frenzy in my ears, chanting over and over in a thousand taunts. In a thousand promises. It’s a struggle not to see the pit when I peer into the darkness that awaits me. Like flash photography with the afterburn, I can see the pit overlaying the dusty cobwebs of the carriage house. I can see the glossy metal table and the IV stands. The case with tools and the reams of printouts. The smell of antiseptic floods my nose and I’m forced to take a knee or fall.

                And that’s when I hear them.

                I knew they would be in here. Subconsciously, maybe. I don’t know. But I knew.

                The shudder that runs up my spine and down my legs is violent. I can make out their outlines, sitting in chairs, spaced two feet apart. They would be speaking to me, trying to hurt me, if they weren’t tied up and gagged.

                I can hear their struggles for breath. It matches my own frantic attempts.

                _Pretty little thing. Look at you. Come on, scream for me. Show me how pretty you can sound when I fuck you like this?_

My face feels wet. Blood or tears, I can’t tell. My mind is slipping. Slipping out of the present and into the past and I can’t grab hold of anything. There is nothing but wet mud beneath my fingers, cold and unfeeling. I’m alone. I’m so fucking alone.

                It’s cold in here.

                Dark.

                No one is coming to save me. No one will ever come.

                I don’t know—

                I blink into the murky darkness, shaking my head, breathing so loudly it sounds like I’m sobbing. Am I? Maybe. I can’t tell. My eyes are focused on the shapes of the men tied to the chairs. The men Damian gift-wrapped for me.

                _Run. Leave. Never come back._

_Get out of here._

_Don’t do this._

But—but I want—I want them gone—I don’t want to be afraid. Clark, I need Clark. He would know what to do. He would help me decide. He would—

                The one nearest me, he grunts, struggling in his bindings. And I know that sound. I’ve heard it a thousand and one times. It’s the sound he makes when he’s got his teeth wrapped around my earlobe as he’s pounding into me, grabbing my hips so hard they ache. Adrenaline floods me, drowns me and I’m pushing to a wobbly stand, fumbling to find a light switch or something to see, because I need to see.

                Damian would have left me a light. He wouldn’t want me to do this in the dark.

                My hand brushes the hard-plastic casing of a camping lantern on a nearby table. It doesn’t take more than a handful of seconds to find the switch. When I do, it’s like staring into a time warp. Like looking down a never-ending hole with sharp knives at the bottom. The reality of seeing these men, outside of the glass in the Fortress, outside of the confines of my memories in the pit, is startling. It’s—grounding. Heartbreaking. Soul-shredding. Because I want them to be monsters. I want them to look as evil and terrifying as my memories are.

                But they don’t. They look—weak. Like nothing for me to be afraid of.

                McMillan and Thames are tied to chairs in my carriage house, gagged and struggling. Bloodshot eyes. Pale skin. Men. Just men. Just—humans.

                Nothing more.

                And I realize all at once, staring into their eyes unflinchingly, seeing myself in the reflection of their blown pupils, that I can’t do this. I won’t.

                I’m not like them. I will never be like them. I can’t be.

                And it is as much relief as it is a grief that swarms me and burns my eyes and makes me shake as I slump to the floor.

                McMillan is watching me, his eyes glistening like black marbles in the halo of light from the lantern and I close my eyes, willing his image to go away. With the adrenaline leaving me, I feel weak as a kitten. Frighteningly close to collapse, both internally and externally.

                Minutes pass. Hours. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’ve slipped deep in my mind, where I measure breaths and count seconds and will myself to breathe steadily. It’s the place I go where I need it to be only me. The one that I was taught to go as a child. By therapists and counselors and well-meaning doctors.

                It is probably why, when I first hear the sound of feet moving on dusty wooden flooring, I don’t register it as reality. I don’t realize, there should be no movement. There should be nothing moving because McMillan and Thames should still be tied up.

                Unless, they aren’t.

                “Still don’t have the guts, do you sweet thing?”

                There is a tender, frightening second, where I think the voice is audible. Outside my head.

                But that isn’t possible.

                I feel breath on my cheeks, where the air smells sour and familiar and rotten. Then my eyes are flashing open and I’m staring into eyes that are too close. I’m so shocked, so stunned by the change in position, maybe even a little by my own stupidity too, that I can’t move. I don’t do anything.

                Damian would have left nothing to chance. He wouldn’t have tied them well enough to hold them for long. He wouldn’t have allowed such an err in judgement when he wanted this to come to a bloody end.

                Reality is cold. It is bitter. It is unsympathetic and unrelenting. I jolt hard when those hands brush my face, when those fingers wrap solidly around my neck, burning into my skin. All at once, a slow-motion film snapping back to full speed again, I can move, and I scrabble to fight.

                The knife I came in with is lying harmless—useless—on the floorboards. I reach blindly for it, bucking up at the weight of McMillan suddenly on me. All around me. But he’s heavy and I’m weak from skipping meals again and from the adrenaline sapping out of my veins. I’m not strong enough.

                The realization is terrifying. Blindingly so.

                “There’s a good boy. Hold still, just like you used to.”

                Something feral makes its way up my throat. Maybe a scream mixed with a growl. I can’t reach the knife. My hands are numb and I’m shaking. And my body is betraying me, responding the way it was trained from months of torture. All of my years as Batman, all of my experience, is worth nothing in these pitiless seconds.

                I’ve lost the ability to protect myself. I’ve lost the ability to tell up from down, let alone how to reverse positions and choke the man on top of me out. Survival feels like a flimsy notion. Something meant to comfort children from the boogeyman under their beds. But the boogeyman is real.  

                And he’s on top of me, choking the life out of me, touching me like he owns me all over again.

                The fight for control doesn’t take very long.

                _Worthless. Weak._

I don’t know where Thames is. If he’s watching like he used to, it wouldn’t surprise me. It would be poetic really. After all this time, for it to end like this. For it to be like this.

                McMillan pins me down with his bulbous gut crushing into my ribs, making each of my breaths short and choppy. Not enough. Not enough air. He smells like he used to. It ramps up the image and the subsequent reactions in my body. I’m steadily going limp. Steadily giving up. My mind rails for a brief moment, screaming to fight back. But it sounds weak. It sounds like I don’t really mean it.

                Fighting gets you hurt. Fighting makes it worse. It’s much better to lie still and relax. Force your muscles to unclench. Hurts much less.

                “Shhh,” McMillan is whispering into my ear. I’ve almost given up. I can feel it in my limbs. In my muscles. I’m emptying.

                Empty.

                I am—

               no one. I am—

               nothing.

               Less—

               than nothing.   

                Good. Numb. Good boy.

                There is nothing inside of me. Not even hatred. It’s—peaceful. Quiet.

                I hardly feel McMillan tugging down my pants. I hardly feel his hands touching and violating, his breath warm and insistent on my face. His groans vibrating on my collarbone.  

                “That’s it. Just like before. Just like it was. You want this.”

                I don’t say anything back. I’ve gone limp. The fight left when my mind did. Sexual assault victims often dissociate during an attack or flashback. It’s only a random errant thought that passes unobstructed in mind and quickly leaves.

                I almost don’t notice that in his excitement, in his exuberance, we’ve moved. He’s struggling to get my briefs down my hips, working to get a hand where he wants it, pry my legs open. He’s never been very fluid in his movements. He’s always been clumsy.  

                He doesn’t realize my fingers are brushing the handle of Damian’s pesh-kabz and if I reach a millimeter, I will have it.

He doesn’t realize, because he’s so caught up in what’s he’s doing. Like my own mind, trapped in all those months of torture, he is just as much a prisoner to his own desires. He’s reliving those moments. And in the slant of lamp-light, I can see his grim mouth. His watery blue eyes. His crinkled forehead as he grunts and focuses on getting what he wants.

                Nothing has changed.

                Except the knife.

                There is so little lag time between when I’ve got the knife in my hand to when I plunge into the side of McMillan’s neck that there isn’t time for him to scream. He isn’t ready.

                Neither am I. Because it doesn’t feel like my hand that’s delivered the killing blow.

                Blood pours out of his mouth and neck, hot and coppery onto my front and all over my face. He makes choked gargling noises, immediately letting go of my neck and tugging his hand out of my briefs to try and futilely staunch the flow of blood. I can’t move. I just lie there. Lifeless and still holding the knife with a death grip beneath the man as he feebly gropes his neck. Weakly wraps those thick, rough, fingers around the wound.

                I stare at him.

                I watch the light leave his eyes and I gasp when he knocks the wind out of me as he collapses on top of me. Vacant eyes, fixed pupils. Splashes of red on graying skin. Pearls. There should be pearls too. But there is only that sickly yellow light illuminating the whole scene. Highlighting all the little details.

                He’s dead. I feel nothing. No relief. Nothing.

                I killed him. I killed McMillan.

                I’m shoving him off of me robotically. My movements are surprisingly smooth, considering my mind is still frozen. I can’t hear anything but the roar of blood in my ears and the sounds of my own breathing. I’m panting, slicked with sweat, shaking. But I can’t feel any of it.

                Everything feels numb.

                I walk over to the other man. Thames. The man with the clipboard. The one who reveled in my reactions as he stuffed me full of chemicals and tech. As he electrocuted me to within an inch of my life. As he starved me and denied me water till I was a weeping child. The action of lining up the knife with his throat feels only natural. It feels—good?

                No. Not that. I still don’t feel anything.

                But I need to do this.

                The carriage house bursts inward. I blink up at the commotion. At the shout of voices and the blur of movement. But my hand on the knife never falters. Nothing deters me from finishing. I slice once. Deep. I don’t hear Thames gasping for his last breaths or feel the hot blood as it pours all over my hands and soaks me a deeper shade of red.

                I don’t see or hear or feel anything.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearly at the end folks. Last chapter will probably be uploaded next week. Thank you for the all the comments and kudos :)

**Dick**

 

                “Hand me the soap—no not that—yes, that one. Hand it over here. Hurry.”

                “Is this too warm?”

                “No. He’s in shock and needs it warm.”

                “Dick, do you want me—”

                “Stay. Tim and Alfred are handling Damian. He’s—he’s fine. Everyone is fine. Just—don’t leave me.”        

                Jason is blinking at me, looking at anywhere but Bruce who is catatonic and drenched in blood in my arms as we roughly heft Bruce into the bottom of the shower. Pink water cascades off his slippered feet towards the drain. Red rivers of blood streak down his face, over his eyelids and nose. He says nothing. He does nothing.

                He doesn’t even blink.

                Jason and I struggle a little to get his clothes off. Mostly because he’s completely frozen. Even if he wanted to help, I don’t know if he could. His muscles are trembling violently, twitching and jerking like a horse trying to throw off biting flies. It’s disturbing to watch.

                I pull the showerhead down, spray Bruce’s hair clean as Jason helps hold him up and we get the majority of the blood off of him even before we get him naked. If this were any other time, I don’t think he’d let us get this far. He’d have panicked. But now, he isn’t home. He’s—gone somewhere in his head. I can think about the shimmering fear in my middle or the queasy flipping in my stomach. The smell of coppery blood is gone, long replaced by the shampoo. By Bruce’s smell—bergamot and lemon. But my hands are stained red.

                My eyes keep seeing blood on his skin where it doesn’t exist.

                We dry him off with towels, two-teaming the effort to get it done faster. Getting him back into his bedroom is difficult but not impossible and we manage to dress him in clean sweats. When we’ve gotten Bruce seated on the edge of the bed, and he’s staring vacantly out at the room, his body still shivering, it starts to hit me hard enough I can’t stop it. I can’t hide it anymore.

The crack down my center splits wider, spills all the soft parts of me out and I’m forced to hold myself up on the mattress. It’s either that or fall.

I feel like I can’t breathe.

                Jason must see it, because he’s stepping between me and Bruce, shoving me in the direction of the door.

                “Go out. I’ll get him in bed.”

                “He shouldn’t be left alone.”

                “I won’t leave him,” Jason snaps, then scrubs a hand down his face, “Just—go. You’re losing it. That won’t help him. Go find Alfred, see how Damian is doing. Get a cup of tea with sugar and drink it. Don’t come back till you do all that.”

                “Right.”

                “Go, Dickie.”

                I nod, feeling my eyes burn and my throat threatening to close. I’m out the door in a few strides but I can still feel the slippery blood on my hands. I can still see Bruce’s vacant stare as he’d stood in front of Thames and sliced his throat. He’d looked at me—no—looked right through me. Coated in blood, gripping that knife like it was his mission, like nothing in the world could stop him—I’d watched Bruce slice another man’s throat with perfect precision.

                My father. The Batman who never kills, who raised me to preserve life above all else. He killed like it was nothing.

                The logical part of my brain understands that Bruce wasn’t fully in control of himself. How could he be? He’d looked like a white-washed ghost. Like a victim who’d snapped.

                But there is an uglier side of me that simply can’t get past it. I can’t stop seeing the blade slice cleanly through the soft skin in Thame’s neck. It’s on replay in my head, a horror film that I can’t escape.  

                Bruce had been—what had he been? Robotic. Empty. He’d not even registered his own name let alone who was in the room. Or what his own hands had just done. We’d had to step over the other body right in front of the door to get inside. Knife wound to the carotid. Perfect kill. But it looked messy. Like there’d been a struggle first. When we got to Bruce’s side, he’d already dropped the knife. He was still shaking and just staring, but the violence had gone right out of him. He’d finished what he wanted to.

                It was over.

                I’ve stopped in the hallway, one hand pressed into the wall, trying to breathe. Trying to calm. My heart is a frantic pulse in my ears and I feel the acid climbing up the back of my throat. I feel sick. The confusion of emotions rushing under my skin is making the room spin. Pictures burned into my retinas flash in a sick display and I grit my teeth as they come—fast and without mercy.

                I’m back in the carriage house for a second. And I can see it all perfectly.

                Dread. Such horrendous dread and sick realization. Horror.

                Bruce’s shirt was torn. His pants were pulled down past his hips and his briefs had the waist band rucked half-way down his backside. It didn’t take a particularly good detective to piece together the scene and how it might have played out. Not really.

                I’ve never seen Bruce like that. Not just as a killer. But like one of the people we help in Gotham. Like the victim of a heinous crime. Shell-shocked and empty—ruined.

                I make it all the way down the hall to the bathroom that adjoins my old room and Damian’s and then I’m running for the toilet. I heave over the toilet bowl roughly, eyes watering, throat burning until I’m empty and sitting on the bathroom floor with my head between my hands.

                I can’t stop seeing Bruce like that. It’s playing over and over in my head.

                Slicked with blood and tears. Pants damn near ripped off, shirt torn down the side. Empty eyes. Hollowed-out. _Ruined_.

                I close my eyes and breathe carefully through my nose, struggling to find my center. Bruce used to insist that I meditate daily to learn how to control my emotions. But it’s not helping. I can’t seem to control the black roil of feelings bubbling and staining me.

                The truth feels ugly.

                I’m not as upset about Bruce killing as I am about what almost happened to him. Again. I’m not as upset about finding Bruce, witnessing him finishing Thames, as I am about almost losing him. About how easily that could have been his throat being torn open.

                I should feel badly that Bruce took lives. I should feel something other than relief that Thames and McMillan are no longer breathing air, but I can’t help the feeling. Because it’s strong and bitter. Rough on my insides. Biting.

                It makes me feel sick again.

                “Dick? You in here?”

                I curl into myself, struggling to control the urge to weep, to let the tears simply flow and only manage it barely. Tim slips into the bathroom and stops at the sink, his eyes boring down into me, face pale and resolute.

                He looks old.

                “Bruce cleaned up?”

                “Yeah.”

                “Is he—”

                “No. He’s still not in there. I don’t think he will be for a while. He needs sleep and—and time.”

                Timothy is nodding, his expression shuttered, “Damian is down in the cave’s holding cell.”

                “What?”

                “He was—beside himself.”

                It’s this, even more than finding Bruce and seeing him like that, even more than watching him slice another man’s throat, that seems to break me. All of the reality, all the cold ugly pieces of it, slam down into me and I suck in a breath to quell the sob that rises in my chest. I can’t hold it together. I hate that I can’t. But I just—break.  

                Tim is kneeling at my side when I crumple and cover my face. He’s rubbing my back, making soothing noises when I start to cry in earnest, shaking with a mixture of rage at what was done, horror, and acute failure on my own part. I failed. I failed Bruce and I failed Damian.

                “No, no you didn’t. Stop that.”

                I didn’t mean to say it aloud. But I must have.

                Tim grabs a fistful of my t-shirt and shakes me. It jars me enough to blink blearily up at him.

                “You didn’t fail anyone. What happened was not your responsibility.”

                “Bruce—Bruce asked me—” my voice breaks, and it feels like broken glass in my chest, “he asked me to stop anyone from doing anything stupid. And Damian—Oh God Damian—”

                “Stop,” Tim murmurs, rubs more soothing circles into my back. The action is comforting. “Damian is old enough to be responsible for his own actions. However flawed and fatal they were. And Bruce—you aren’t responsible for fixing him Dick. That isn’t how this works.”

                “He needed me.”

                “And you showed up. He’s going to be alright. Everything is going to work out.”

                “You weren’t there,” I choke, “you didn’t see him kill. You didn’t see what he looked like—how his—” clothes were torn and the truth of what had been done to him in the past collided hard and painfully against what had almost happened _again_.

                I thought I understood what Bruce had been through, to some degree. We all thought we did. But seeing him like that, I think maybe I will never understand it.

                There are long minutes where Tim simply lets me cry. Where I cry until the tears finally run dry and I’m sagging into him, letting Tim support my weight. I should be the one comforting him. But I can’t seem to muster the strength. I simply—can’t. 

“I think I was happy, Tim. Does that make me evil? Does that make me sick?” my whisper comes out strangled in the silent bathroom, paper-thin.

                “No.” Tim doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t whisper back. It’s more comforting than the strength of his embrace. “I’m glad they are gone. I’m disappointed about how this turned out. I’m upset with Damian and I think we will all be for quite some time. But—I can’t be unhappy those men are dead. The end results are too gratifying.”

                “Dami—he’s—”

                “Sedated. He was inconsolable when you brought him back to the manor. Seeing Bruce like he was, covered in blood and—unresponsive—I think was a hard dose to take. I don’t think he was quite expecting that result.”

                “And you really think he needs to be locked up?”

                Tim frowns, “I don’t know. Damian did something that could be deemed unforgiveable. When Bruce is awake and coherent, we’ll defer to him. But until then, the holding cell has a comfortable cot and Alfred will keep him fed.”

                My chest aches. “Damian won’t fight being locked up.”

                Tim shakes his head, “No. His guilt is enough of a prison. But I think—I think it’ll be good for him. He needs to think about how this could have turned out. How it almost did turn out.”

                “Yes.”

                I still ache to think about Damian, alone and wallowing in guilt. I still worry. I can’t help it. Our family will never be the same. It’s changed again. It always does, but this time feels like a gaping wound and I can’t help but wonder how it will ever heal.

 

 

**Alfred**

Master Damian says nothing to me in the morning when I bring him toast and his favored tea. He glances at the tray, offers me a vacant stare amidst waxen skin and my heart clenches in my chest. It matters little that he did something wrong. That he hurt Master Bruce and risked everything for some misguided ideal that it would make everything better.

                He is still, for all intensive purposes, my grandson. And I love him dearly. I hate seeing him hurt. I hate seeing any of them hurting.

                I ignore the flicker of surprise in his green gaze when I take a seat on the edge of the cot, leaving the door to the cell open. I have absolute confidence that Master Damian has no intention of leaving the space until he is given permission. The shackles of guilt and regret hanging round his neck are heavy enough to keep him in place. There needn’t be a door or lock at all.

                “You must eat something.”

                He blinks at me, lips compressing into a fine line, “No.”

                “You’ll want your strength for when Master Bruce summons you.”

                Master Damian’s breath sucks in sharply, his hands fisting. But he doesn’t move from the protective ball he’s curled into. I risk putting a hand on his shoulder and feel it tremble beneath my hands. It shakes the thin hold I have on my own control. I want to gather him up against me, hold him fiercely, admonish him, comfort him, rail against him for this foolish thing. He looks too much like Master Bruce when he was that age. Too much like the man upstairs who hasn’t said a word. Who hasn’t moved even a muscle on his own.

                I have every confidence that he will. That given another few hours, he will come out of his mind and then—we can rebuild. We always do. With Diana and Clark returning in just a few short hours, there will be more than enough hands for the task. There will be more than enough support. And all can be forgiven.

                Master Bruce will forgive Damian. I am certain of that.

                But it does not eliminate the hurt.

                “My dear boy, your father will forgive you.”

                Master Damian blinks up at me, eyes suddenly cloudy with tears, face reddening. It is better than the sickly pallor of ashen snow. “I have grievously miscalculated.”

                “Yes.”

                A tear slips, tracks down his cheek, drips off his chin. It is so silent in the cave, in the dark murky warmth of it, that I swear I can almost hear the sorrow in that one tear. “Father looked—he looked—”

                He does not finish, but rather breaks. One too many hairline fractures in the façade of strength. One too many hits. The break is heart wrenching to bear witness to. Uncomfortably painful. For all my experience, I have no way of fixing the young master’s guilt. 

                I can recall what Master Bruce looked like, being carried by Master Jason into the manor with perfect clarity. Cotton pajamas and robe soaked with crimson, face half-covered in garish blood. Gray eyes, open and staring. For a brief, terrifying moment, I thought him dead. He’d been so still, so empty, I’d been unable to breathe, let alone move.

                Then Master Dick was yelling at me for help because Master Damian was wailing, high shrill noises of anguish and all the speed of an emergency came back with a rush. Master Timothy and I took Master Damian down into the cave. We attempted calming him with words, through unwelcome touches. In the end, the only answer had been to sedate him.

                Locking him in the holding cell of the cave had felt—wrong. But I understood it. I agreed with Master Timothy’s assessment, after he’d divulged the scene of the carriage house. After he’d explained all that Master Damian had done.

                “Master Bruce will recover. Life will move on. All will be forgiven, of that I am certain. It just needs time and space.”

                Master Damian’s soft sobs are gentle drops on my ears. And more pitiable for it. I brush back hair from his forehead, smoothing a thumb along a scar that mars his hairline. He is so much like Master Bruce was—is.

                “Hush,” I whisper, wiping his cheeks, offering him a hanky from my pocket. He takes it without speaking and I wait till he’s done crying again before standing. “Please eat something, Master Damian. I’m sure it won’t be long now before Master Bruce will want to see you.”

                “Are you sure—” Damian bites his lip, “that he will want to?”

                I smile, weary and thin, but honest. “Yes. I am sure.”

 

 

**Clark**

It is close to three in the morning by the time Diana and I are walking through the back door of the manor.

                The house is silent. A tomb—and we the unwelcome guests who come to disturb it. It’s easy to hear all the heartbeats of the occupants with clarity. I know them well enough to decipher where everyone is. What they are doing.

                On the third floor, I single out Bruce’s heart first, ensuring it is steady and even. Strong. It’s slow enough I know he’s asleep. Or resting at the very least. It’s a comfort to know he is safe.

                Jason is beside him, awake, watchful. His heart always sounds a little strange—alien. I suspect it is from the Pit. From the effects of whatever the Lazarus properties do to revive someone. It makes his heart distinctive, almost frantic in my ears.

                Dick is with Tim. Both are asleep in Timothy’s bed. Slow even beats, almost exactly synched. It makes me smile as Diana and I head for the stairs. I don’t hear Alfred or Damian in the manor. But beneath it.

                One deep and low, as familiar to me as Bruce’s. Comforting even. The other, faster and thready. Like a viola versus a cello in my ears. It makes my eyes sting and my throat want to close when I picture Damian locked in the cave—alone and hurting. Even if he’s done this to himself, even if he deserves whatever punishment is decided, Damian is still a child in many respects. He is a child who did what he thought was best. There is great deal of that flawed logic that can be blamed on the League and on Talia. Some on Bruce’s own stubborn genetics.

                It does not make any of this, any easier.

                Diana and I walk quietly, stepping over creaking stairs, avoiding places in the hallways that will give us away. We spoke briefly on the flight home. When Dick called and updated us on the situation—I’d felt a plethora of conflicting feelings. Relief, that Bruce had been found and was safe. That Damian was too. Rage, because Damian had risked so much, had put Bruce in a dangerous position and exposed him to untold trauma. Fear, because I didn’t know what it cost Bruce to kill those men. I still don’t.

                The last update had been vague. Bruce was stable but still not speaking. Damian was calmer. Everyone was fine.

                Bruce’s bedroom is as dark as the hallway.

                Jason twitches in his seat, pushing to a stand when we approach. He shakes his head softly at me, a warning to keep quiet and I hear Bruce’s breathing alter, the sounds of a man barely asleep. Diana is silently crawling into the bed behind me, giving Bruce space but sharing his warmth.

                It feels natural to reach out and pull Jason into my arms. To hug him close, though he stiffens and sucks in a breath like I’ve slapped him. I keep the hug brief, more for myself than him, then release him with a meaningful look.

                _Thank you._

                Jason shakes his head, looking down at the floor. _Don’t mention it. Seriously._

I smile when he slides past me then escapes Bruce’s bedroom without a sound. Jason is as soft on the inside as he is tough as nails on the out. A young man truly after Bruce’s own heart.

                Diana and I didn’t speak of it, but it feels like an unspoken agreement that I’ll stay too. She watches me with soft eyes and a half-smile as I tug off my shoes, then climb into bed on Bruce’s other side. He stirs, hands fisting, breath catching—then resettles closer to Diana, giving me his back.

                He is safe. Everyone is fine.

                I say the mantra in my head like a lullaby for hours. Until I finally fall asleep.

 

 

                It’s close to sunrise when I wake.

                I blink into the gray light, unsure of why I’m suddenly so alert—then I see the empty space between me and Diana and I realize that Bruce is gone. Diana is curled on her side, hugging her pillow, one elegant hand loose and reaching into the empty space at her side. She looks peaceful and more relaxed than I've seen her in weeks.  

                I can't help but let Diana sleep. She deserves that much. We haven’t gotten much rest from the off-world mission to rushing home for Bruce. So, I don’t wake her when I climb out of bed and seek out Bruce. He’s likely gone to use the bathroom but I’m not ashamed to admit having him out of my sight makes me feel a touch panicky. I need the reassurance.

                He hasn’t gone far.

                Standing in the bathroom, staring at the floor—arms loose and shoulders hunched. He makes a pitiful sight.

                “Bruce?” I whisper into the silence and watch as he flinches but won’t turn and face me.

                I circle around him, come to his front and see he’s got his eyes closed. His face is so pale I can see the blue of the veins in his eyelids.

                “Bruce?”

                “I can’t,” he whispers and something about the way he says it, has my stomach dipping uncomfortably.

                “Can’t what?”

                He shakes his head weakly, one hand flexing around an object I’m only just noticing. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a pill bottle.

                “Bruce?” my voice comes out a little shaky. A lot worried. “What do you mean?”

                “I can’t do this.”

                It’s instinct to insist that he can. But I’m not sure what he means, and I feel like every bit of what I say is extremely tantamount at present. That it could breathe life—or death.

                “Bruce, why are you in here?”

                He opens his eyes then and they look bloodshot and watery. Worse, they look frantic. “I need to end it. I need to—to be done. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

                “Bruce—”

                “Clark,” he chokes, whole body shaking now and I can hear pills rattling in the bottle in his hand. Faintly, I recognize that it means he hasn’t taken any yet. That I caught him before he was about to. It doesn’t help the terrified rabbiting of my heart. It doesn’t make it any easier to breathe. “I can’t do this. I can’t—”

                “Yes,” I say it this time, strong and sure, reaching for his hand with the pills, grabbing it hard, “Yes, you can.”

                “I killed them.”

                I nod slowly. His hand in mine feels like ice. “Yes, you did. But it was self-defense.”

                Bruce laughs and it’s anything but humorous. It’s agony. “The first maybe. The second? No. You can’t say that. I killed him in cold blood. I—I killed him.”

                “Bruce, you weren’t in you’re right mind. You were hurt and frightened. You couldn’t control what you were doing.”

                “I could have—I could—” Bruce’s teeth are chattering violently, clicking together and I don’t think, I just grab onto him. I tug him into my chest, prying the pill bottle out of his hands and letting it crash to the bathroom tile. The cap pops off and pills scatter everywhere.

                He fights me for a moment, arms weakly pushing at me, then abruptly latches onto me with desperate abandon and starts weeping. Deep ragged sobs that shake us both, that make me join him. I can’t let go. I can’t move.

                I’m frozen in this blistering moment with my best friend who wanted to kill himself. With my best friend who has been through so much that he thought the best way out, was to just end it all. It rocks me to my core. It shreds me down to the baser self that is as fragile as a first bloom in Spring. I hardly notice when another pair of arms joins ours, banding around us both. But I’m grateful for the extra support they offer and the stability.

                I’ve never been more grateful.

                I hear the Greek words Diana is saying, ancient prayers being whispered against my shoulder and I realize I’m crying too. Almost as hard as Bruce is.

                “We will be alright,” Diana soothes, “We will be fine.”

                Bruce is dead on his feet when he cries himself dry and I’m feeling similar. We ignore the bottle and the pills all over the floor and go back to bed. Bruce curls into my side, buries his nose in my neck and holds me tight enough it should hurt. Diana wraps herself around his back, a shield on all sides of him. We cling, we breathe together, we remain.

                But I don’t fall back to sleep. I stay awake and count Bruce’s breaths. I count his heartbeats.

 

 

 

**Bruce**

It takes me three days to get out of bed. And when I do, I still feel groggy and strange. I still feel—like I don’t feel much at all.

                I swing between heartrending grief and numbness. I prefer the numb. It makes it easier to function. It makes it easier to survive. And that’s what I’m doing, isn’t it? I’m surviving. I’m still breathing. Though there have been moments, terribly dark and desolate moments where I’m certain I don’t want to be surviving. I’m certain I’d rather just stop.

                Everything would be quiet then. My thoughts wouldn’t haunt me. My memories wouldn’t hurt me.

                Clark and Diana’s presence are the only thing that prevents me from completely losing myself. They remain at my side, quiet sentinels, guarding me. From my own darkness.

                It takes a week for me to make it downstairs. Clean and dressed. Like I’m normal. Like everything is fine, even though it clearly is not.

                Diana showers with me and she kisses me for the first time since she got back. It’s a soft kiss with no pressure for more and something inside me clicks back into place when she does it. Something that was aching and open, shredded, starts to mend when her mouth moves with mine. When her taste lingers in my mouth and I feel the sharp edge of _want._ It’s welcome—the desire, the need to touch and be touched. We stand so long under the spray, touching and kissing, that my fingers are pruned, and my skin feels water logged.

                 It is the first time that I feel warm in days. The first time that I feel like I might be OK.

                 Now, sitting at the table in the kitchen, absently drinking coffee while Clark and Alfred are murmuring softly at the stove, I hardly feel Diana’s hand wrapped around mine. I hardly even feel the seat beneath my legs. But I don’t feel like crying and I don’t feel nothing. So I imagine that it is progress.

                 I have no idea where the boys are or what they’ve been doing this last week. It’s like I’ve been in a time warp and I’m only just now surfacing. It’s disorienting.

                “You should eat something.”

                 I stare at the table where a plate was put down at some point and frown. “I’m not hungry.”

                 Diana gives my hand a squeeze, drawing my gaze to hers. Her eyes are Prussian blue and seeking. I try to offer her a weak smile, but I’m afraid it looks more like a grimace. “If you don’t eat, Alfred will worry more than he already has.”

                 I glance at Alfred and see his brows knit as he’s speaking with Clark. Whatever they are discussing must be of some import for that sort of expression. I feel vaguely interested in listening in but not enough to move. The sun feels warm on my back and welcome. It makes me want to take Diana by the hand and go back to bed. To snuggle into her side and forget some more.

                 Alfred made waffles and though the smell is pleasant, I don’t taste anything while I eat them. I manage one waffle under Diana’s scrutiny and when Clark returns to the table, Alfred has left the kitchen.

               “Everything alright?” I ask, washing the tasteless food out of my mouth with more coffee.

               “Yes.”

               I lift a brow, “Alfred seemed upset.”

               “He’s not upset.”

               Diana shifts at my side and I realize I’m gripping her hand so hard my knuckles are white. “He looked upset. What aren’t you telling me?”

               Clark inhales softly, then scrubs both hands down his face and it is the first time I realize how tired he looks. I’ve not been able to notice much of anything over the last week, but now that I am, I feel the distinct tang of worry filtering in.

              “It’s about Damian.”

               The mention of Damian makes me still. Makes me stop breathing. “What—” I clear my throat, “What about him? Is he OK?”

               I’ve thought of him off and on. Wondered and worried. But mostly he’s been a soft constant in my mind, something I’ve tried not to tamper with too often. It might hurt too much to do so. And I’ve been too weak to risk it.

               Clark purses his lips, “He’s fine. But we need to talk about what you’d like to do.”

              “What I’d like to do?”

               He nods, slowly, like he’s worried I’m going to lose it. It makes the muscles in my jaw tense and my heart steadily beat faster. His expression does more than confuse me. It worries me.

               “Now that you’re feeling a little more—human—we need to know what you’d like to do about him. He seems perfectly content to remain in the cave’s holding cell, but I would imagine that isn’t something you’d like to do long-term.”

               “What?” my voice comes out strangled, shock coloring it strongly.

               Clark’s eyes flicker to mine, hold, “Bruce, do you remember what I told you a few days ago? Do you remember me coming to talk to you about Damian?”

               I blink at him, feel something like shame flicker down my spine then shake my head. “No. I don’t—I don’t remember much.”

               Clark’s sigh isn’t exasperated. It’s sad.

               “After what happened, Damian was placed in the cave’s holding cell until we could decide what should be done. Given the severity of the situation, we weren’t sure what you would prefer.”

               “What I would prefer…”

               “Yes,” Diana speaks up finally and I feel a little like I might be sick. Like I’ve been asleep for ages and am only just now waking up. Too much, too soon. Too fast.

               “Damian is in the cave’s holding cell.”

               The words sound hollow coming out of my mouth. Wrong.

               Clark nods again. “Yes, Bruce. That’s where he is. Where he’s been for the last week.”

               A week.

               Dear God.

               I’m standing before I can think through what exactly I’m feeling. Moving at a fast clip, before conscious thought of my actions can catch up to where I’m going. Clark and Diana do nothing to stop me and I’m descending into the damp chill of the cave within minutes.

               The stairs are slippery under my socked feet and I distantly think how I’m going to need to change my socks because they’re getting soaked. At the bottom, I’m already breaking into a jog, rushing for my destination with breath sobbing out of my lungs like I’m panicking. But I’m not. I’m not panicking.

               I’m breaking.

               I stop at the door of the holding cell and stare inside, eyes searching for the familiar shape of my son and finding him. He’s curled onto his side on the cot, hair a dark mop against the white of the pillow, features soft and introspective. My heart is a dam bursting open and spilling.

               I can’t get inside fast enough. I need to see him, to touch him, to speak with him. Everything slows so much it feels like I’m moving through sludge.

               My hands shake when I punch in the code to get inside and the minute the door swings open Damian is sitting up, blinking rapidly at me. Staring.

               All the air punches out of my lungs and for a one heartless second, I can’t breathe.

               “Damian—” I choke out, eyes filling with tears, heart slamming into ribs, “Damian, I—”

               The words won’t come. They just stop in my throat and he’s staring at me with wide, frightened eyes, his hands fists on his knees. He’s afraid of me. Afraid of what I’ll do. What I’ll think. The sudden ache in my chest is so acute, it almost brings me to the floor.

                It’s an easy decision, or maybe not a decision at all to stumble over the bed and gather him in my arms. I don’t realize how hard I’m clutching him, how I might be hurting him, till he squirms a little and tries to get space between us.

                I allow it, but keep my hands on him, on his arms. I need to keep touching him. To ground myself with it.

               “I’m so sorry,” Damian starts roughly, his voice coming out like a croak, “It was a mistake Father. A terrible mistake. I never meant to hurt you. I never thought—” he bites his lip, looks down, “I never thought you could be hurt worse. I thought I was helping.”

               “Damian,” I only seem capable of saying his name, over and over, as if that would be enough. But it never will be. “I’m not mad.”

                He bites his lip again, eyes watering, “I don’t understand.”

               “I forgive you.”

                No words have been easier to say. No words have felt more right leaving my mouth. And their impact is immediate.

               A tear slips, falls unheeded and plops onto my arm. I watch it track down the skin, hot and real. And I feel the love for this boy swell to bursting in my chest. I understand what he was trying to do. I understand what he wanted for me. I can’t be angry with him.

               I simply—cannot.

               Maybe it’s the love of a parent that overrules any other feeling. Maybe not. All I know is that I love my son. My feelings have not changed on that account. And I will never stop loving him. It is not a magical potion to make everything better. But it is something.   

               “It’s alright, Damian,” I try the words out and Damian flinches like I’ve struck him. So, I say them again and again until Damian is clinging to my neck, his face buried and shoulders shaking.

                I hold him for a long time. I memorize the feel of his hair under hands, the smell of his skin that reminds me of childhood and cardamom. I listen to his breaths as they slow, and the crying finally stops. When we separate, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my chest. Like after so many days of being unable to feel anything at all, suddenly I can feel everything.

               And it isn’t all bad. It isn’t all—ugly.

               I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what it will mean for the future. Or if I will ever forget what it feels like to take another man’s life so callously, but I am grateful for it. I am grateful that it doesn’t feel like an ending. That with Damian sitting in front me, with Diana and Clark at my back, and the rest of my boys in the wings, I might be alright. We might—come out on the other side.

              Different. But whole.

              “Father?”

               I wipe both of Damian’s cheeks dry, smooth a hand over his hair. “Yes?”

               Damian’s eyes are a lighter green when he cries. Like jade. “I—I love you.”

               I feel the corner of my mouth hitch, “I love you too.”

 


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm, I cried a little finishing this off. It's sad that it's over but I'm really happy with the way this turned out. Thank you, EVERYONE, for the lovely comments and the kudos. It's been a blast. An emotionally angsty crazy blast. Thank you! Hugs!
> 
> I ended this with three points of view, the trinity, and of course with Clark--who we began with. Enjoy.

**One Year Later…**

**Diana**

Sunday mornings are my favorite.

                They are soft. Spent in bed with mounds of pillows, beneath the sheets where warm skin and an overabundance of kisses can be found. They are for forgetting—or remembering. For savoring.  

                It has been a year since the carriage house. Nearly two and a half years since Bruce went missing and our world fractured, never to be the same. In the soft glow of mid-morning light, hiding beneath the thin layer of Egyptian cotton, I can see the evidence of our trials on his skin as familiar to me as my own. I can trace the scars, the breaths, the hums. A thousand little moments capturing a thousand little memories to make the man beneath me.

                Bruce hums against my throat, his mouth studiously kissing my pulse into racing and I smile above him, tangling my hands into his hair.

                “It’s late Bruce. We should be going down.”

                “The boys can take care of themselves,” he murmurs, voice sleep-drenched and sultry, thoughts clearly on one thing and one thing only. I would be happy to oblige him, but I promised Alfred we would be down in time for brunch at the very least. By the sun slanting in from the drapes, it’s well on it’s way to noon. At this rate, it’ll be more like lunch.

                “Dick is coming. And Jason.”

                “I’ll be fast,” Bruce licks at my collarbones, teeth grazing the skin to send gooseflesh rippling down my spine.

                “What if I’m not?”

                His rumble of laughter is welcome. Good, so very, very good. I will never get enough of the sound of it. I will never grow tired of his skin on mine or his smile that is more rare, but no less bright.

                Bruce’s hands are wandering down my back, tracing the line of my spine and I arch into it, unable to stop the small gasp of pleasure I get from those fingers on my skin. Calloused and strong. Deft and sure. So much surer now, than a year previous.

                “Bruce—they will be waiting for us.”

                “Let them wait,” Bruce pushes up against me, makes a sound in his throat that has my vision immediately tunneling and I forget why I’m trying to convince him to stop. Why I would ever want him to in the first place.

                When we do manage to make it down the stairs, I’m a little boneless and feel like I am drunk on Bruce. If he is as affected by our morning lovemaking, he does not show it. The only indication I have of his want to stay near is his hand tight on mine.

                We descend into the dining room and find it alive and bursting with noise.

                Dick and Jason are in fact already here, seated at the table with Timothy and Damian. All of them are talking over one another and barely lift a glance at Bruce and I as we enter. We take our seats near the head of the table where Alfred kindly set out plates and silverware. The smell of biscuits and gravy makes my mouth water.

                It is the little things I savor now, more than ever. The fact that Bruce refuses to let go of my hand beneath the table. Or that he quietly watches his sons with deep affection in his eyes as he drinks his coffee. I revel in how easy it has become once again. Better even. Because the boys don’t spare us a glance to stop arguing when everyone would have stopped and worried and fretted over Bruce a year ago. Now, it is commonplace to have him at the breakfast table, quietly eating with them.

                There are still the marks on his skin to denote what happened. Bruce still doesn’t keep as much weight on his frame as he ought to—a byproduct of his own tendency to skip meals and being bone-thin for too long. Food is not something he enjoys as he once did. Not that he ever enjoyed it a great deal, to begin with.

                He is quieter. More thoughtful as he watches our family. As he studies Alfred refilling coffee and then taking his own seat at the table. He doesn’t add a lot of commentaries or chides anyone for cursing or bother to threaten Jason about wearing his guns into the manor.

                He just watches them, a half-smile on his mouth and contentment in his eyes.

                We still have nightmares. Jason still wears gloves in the house, though he has tried once or twice not to. Bruce did better than expected. And continues to do better.

                Bruce has returned to the JLA, active status, and runs the bi-weekly staff meetings like nothing has changed. If he’s a little softer on Flash or less growly about the need for better coffee in the lounge, it goes unnoticed. Or rather, unsaid. We tip-toe less. We fret over him less.

                We enjoy more.

                Bruce’s hand tightens on my own beneath the glossy wood and I flick a glance to him. He winks at me, a sly look crossing his mouth as he lets go of my hand to put it threateningly on my knee. I smirk and reciprocate the gesture with a lifted brow. It earns me a choked noise.

                “Can Jon come over this afternoon, Father?”

                “Hmm?” Bruce tears his eyes away from me and I let my fingers wander up his thigh, just to see what he’ll do. His eyes merely tighten at the corners as he looks to Damian.

                I’ve missed this. I’ve missed being able to play and to tease without fear of recourse. It’s like being able to breathe again.

                “Didn’t you say that Clark is coming over today? Can Jon come too?”

                “Oh,” Bruce blinks and I can see something dark pass over his face. I remove my hand and place it over his, squeezing for comfort instead. “Yes. That’s fine. Clark and I have something we need to do out of the house. We won’t be home till dinner.”

                “We just wanted to kick his ass in the new Assassin’s Creed game I brought over,” Jason offers, a wicked grin on his mouth.

                Alfred tuts softly, “Language.”

                And the tension lifts on Bruce’s face. Whatever he felt—whatever he was thinking. It’s gone

                “Sorry, Alf.”

                “It’s quite alright, Master Jason. Everyone in the household forgets once or twice.”

                “Or twenty times,” Timothy supplies mockingly, “but whatever.”

                Jason sticks his tongue out, Damian snorts, and Timothy starts railing about the injustices of being the least favored. Until Dick pipes up with his usual calming voice, “Come on children, let’s play nice.”

                “We are,” Damian quips, “this is us being nice.”

                “That’s right Dickie,” Jason grins mockingly, “This is me being nice.”

                The conversation devolves a little further, turns into more meaningless insults and lots of bravadoes. Bruce and I sit quietly and eat our breakfast, enjoying it all. Allowing the magic of a Sunday brunch to settle in and soothe something soul-deep and aching.

                As they file out, one by one, Bruce tucks into his second cup of coffee and Alfred starts to clean up.

                “We’ll clean up Alfred,” I say quietly, a little sleepy from the food and the sunlight pouring in. It feels good on my skin and makes me want to find a beach somewhere to sunbathe. Bruce would probably be a distraction, but a welcome one, at my side.

                “I couldn’t possibly—”

                “Yes, you could,” Bruce laughs, “Take the bone, Alfred. Besides, didn’t you say you wanted to try that new recipe for gluten-free cookies that Lois might like? They’ll be over in a couple hours. That doesn’t leave you much time.”

                Alfred frowns, then finally nods his head, leaving the assortment of dirty dishes on the table with a look like it makes him itchy to do so.

                Bruce and I do the dishes side-by-side, with warm soapy water turning our hands to prunes and lingering looks. It’s the sort of thing I never imagined I’d want, growing up on Themiscyra—but now can never imagine not having. The simplicity of living and loving and sharing the load of the day to day tasks. It makes my throat tight and my eyes burn when we finish and move back upstairs to get ready.

                I don’t need to help Bruce shave. But with some unspoken agreement, I do. He sits on the edge of the tub, eyes closed, head tipped back so I can scrape the whiskers from his skin and I feel fortunate to have his trust. I feel—more of that gratitude and ache that sneaks up on me in moments like this. When I wipe him clean after his skin is pink and smooth, I press a long kiss to his mouth. I nibble on those lips that open eagerly for me and I take a little more than he’s offering because even though it’s been a year, even though he is well and the house is back in order, and everyone is safe—I still feel in deficit. I still feel needy of his love and affection. Of his touches.

               He smiles against my mouth, presses light kisses to my cheeks and eyes, whispers a few things he would never say in front of anyone else and it fills the hole. It fills the need.

               We brush our teeth. We dress quietly and then settle on the bed to get shoes on as I start finger combing my hair to braid it.

               “May I?” Bruce murmurs against my neck, warm hands running through the length of my hair absently.

               “Of course,” I turn and give him my back, let him comb the hair off my forehead and turn me into putty in his hands. He’s braided my hair for me before. But this feels different. He lingers on the strands, takes his time, is excruciatingly gentle in his approach and I feel the same shadow from the dining room in his movements. I feel—grief. Or a sorrow blooming in bitter-sweet tangs around us.

              “What is it?” I ask carefully, back still turned as he finishes the braid and ties it off.

              “Clark and I—” he whispers, and I still don’t turn. He needs a moment. I can hear it. I can hear the pain in his voice. “We’re going to Smallville today.”

              “Yes. He mentioned that.”

              “It’s time for me to let go.”

              I turn now because I can’t help it because I need to see his face and understand what he means. “Let go of what Bruce?”

 

 

 

**Bruce**

 

                It’s hard to explain. More than hard. Because it makes me feel naked and small. But I find myself standing, moving with stiff limbs over to my nightstand and pausing, every muscle in my back stiff.

                I haven’t needed it in months. I haven’t even looked at it.

                But it’s been there, a safety net, an extra added note of security and peace of mind. But I can’t—I don’t want—I don’t want to need it anymore. For me to move on, to really let go and move past everything, I need to let this piece of me go too. I need to bury it.

                Diana waits for me as I stand awkwardly for long minutes and says nothing when I finally open the drawer and return with the familiar piece of red cape in my hands. My fingers are shaking, and I feel a little sick to my stomach holding it, all signs that make me more confident in this decision. Of needing to let go of it to move on.

                “Bruce, you don’t need—”

                I look up and find Diana’s eyes holding on me fiercely, their color light from emotion. “I do.”

                “You and Clark are going to get rid of it.”

                I feel the corner of my mouth lift in a smile, but it feels plastic. It feels fake. “Clark suggested we bury it.”

                She lifts a brow, “Like a grave?”

                “Well,” this time I laugh a little, because it sounds strange, “Yes. He says it deserves the proper respect. That I need to do with a bit of ceremony.”

                Diana watches me a moment, glances down at the red scrap and swallows, “He’s right. It has been a special item to you. A sacred one.”

                “It has,” I blink through the sting in my eyes and nod, “But I’m better now. And I want to put the past to rest. I don’t need this anymore. I haven’t in a long time.”

                “A symbol of moving on.”

                “Yes.”

                She smiles, eyes watery and soft, love shining in her eyes so bright it burns me to the core. Makes me feel like I can’t get in a good enough breath. “You’ve overcome so much Bruce.”

                “It doesn’t—I don’t—”

                “I know,” she laughs a little, “You don’t handle compliments well. But it is true. I am proud of everything you have accomplished. I am proud of the man you are.”

                Is it odd that I need to hear her say that? That it makes me feel warm and strong at the same time? That I want to curl into the feeling and never let it fade?

                Diana and I have grown in ways I could not have anticipated since the beginning of all of this. Our bond, however strong before, has only deepened. To the point, I cannot tell where she ends, and I begin. She has been the constant, the rock, and the salvation to the storm of grief and pain I’ve experienced in this last year.

                And I am as grateful to her presence in my life as I am to Clark’s steady friendship.

                Without them, I would have been lost. My life would have ended in our bathroom with a bottle of pills. I wouldn’t have been here at all.

                “Clark is here,” Diana sighs, leaning into me for a hug, pressing her mouth to mine. She tastes like toothpaste and I chase the taste for a moment, drawing out the kiss. Until Diana puts a hand on my chest and stops me. “Go.” I lift a brow at her commanding tone and she smirks. “Or I will be forced to toss you over my shoulder and take what you are offering.”

                I laugh then, lightened impossibly despite the weight of the cape in my hand. I never could have imagined I’d fall in love with a woman rivaling myself in height and certainly far stronger, but I wouldn’t change it. If she asked me to jump, I’d do it. If she said run, I’d do that too.

                That power over another person used to frighten me. It should still. It doesn’t.

                Clark and I fly to Smallville. Lois and Jon stay behind, and Lois is full of compliments over Alfred’s peanut butter oatmeal cookies, specially gluten-free.

                Smallville is soft this time of year. Quiet in the crush of dead leaves and wind-bitten air. When we reach the edge of trees that delineate a path to Clark’s pond, we fall into step beside one another and I say nothing when Clark takes my hand. Something held over from before, we just never stopped. We hold hands almost as much as Diana and I do.

                I wouldn’t change that either.

                We reach the pond a handful of minutes later and Clark leads us straight to his favorite tree. In the height of summer, the leaves span wide enough to shade from the heat. Now, the sycamore is a burst of color, amber, red, and orange. The leaves sound brittle overhead as they swish in the breeze and I huddle into my coat for warmth.

                “Is here good?”

                I look down at the ground, where Clark is pushing leaves out of the way and looking for a flat patch of soil. Probably where he won’t rip up too many roots.

                “Yes. It’s fine.”

                Clark brought a box for it. Like a little coffin. It made me laugh back at the manor, but now having held it in my hands for the last hour, I can see it was made just for this purpose. Carved ornately, with Kryptonian symbols that mean peace and love. My initials are carved into the center, I'm certain by Clark's own hand. And it feels strange because it’s like I’m burying a piece of myself in the box. Like I’m losing something.

                And I feel a desperate sort of clawing grief fill my middle right alongside the relief that this is all behind me. That it’s over. That I don’t need the little scrap of the cape like before.

                Clark smells like fresh soil when he stands back up and moves to peer down at me. The tip of his nose and tops of his ears look pink from the cold. But I know he isn’t cold at all. He’s warmer than anyone on the planet.

                “If you aren’t ready, we don’t have to do this. You never have to.”

                “I want to,” I say the words through a tight throat, my eyes filling with tears. They spill, unchecked after a moment and I have to swipe at them, to look away from Clark because as much as I’ve cried in front of him these last two years, it still embarrasses me.

                “Bruce,” Clark grabs my wrists holding the box, “It’s alright.”

                “I know,” I nod, struggling to get my emotions back under control, “I know it is. That’s why I want to do this.”

                “If you want a little more time—”

                “No,” I shake my head firmly, then thrust the wooden box at Clark. He takes it gingerly and sighs, turning back for the hole he made. I’m kneeling in the dirt and leaves beside him a moment later, folding black soil over the wood, feeling like I’m burying a thousand pounds of grief in the ground and when the box is covered fully, Clark brushes leaves over the top to hide it.

                “It’s done.”

                Clark slants a look at me, still kneeling, brushing the soil off his hands, “Yes, it is. It’s behind you, Bruce.”

                I nod, wipe my face again to clear the remaining tears, then stand. “Let’s go back.”

                “You sure?”

                It doesn’t make a lot of sense that burying a box beneath a childhood tree should make me feel better. But it does. I feel—lighter. Freer.

                Like I’m finally able to let the last shred of grief I’d been clinging to go. It feels good. Not blindingly so, but softly. Like a breath of fresh air after breathing smoggy street air for months on end.

                “Yes, Clark, I’m sure.”

               

**Clark**

               

                We eat dinner at the manor and it’s a loud affair. Nothing with all those boys isn’t.

                Everyone takes dinner in the entertainment room, much to Alfred’s dismay, and we sit draped over couches and stuffed chairs, eating and chattering so loud it’s a wonder anyone even hears any of the dialogue in the movie at all.

                Bruce and Diana share the recliner, curled into each other beneath a knitted blanket and don’t bother refereeing the almost constant stream of arguments between Tim and Damian. Jon and Damian are as attached at the hip as ever and sit too close to the TV, yelling at everyone to ‘shut up!’ so they can hear what’s going on. I’m more of a Star Trek fan myself, but Damian and Jon have been working on getting through all the episodes of Star Wars and we’re on the fourth. I’m only half-way paying attention to it anyways.

                Lois’ soft snores in my ear are lulling and I feel fairly close to nodding off myself. She’s a heavy weight on my side, ear pressed against my chest, arms wrapped snugly around my middle. It might be one of my favorite positions to be caught in yet. Nothing is better than Lois when she’s cuddly and soft and I take full advantage at every opportunity.

                Jason and Dick are draped on the couch, Jason with a book, feet in Dick’s face and Dick propped up on one elbow, trying and failing to get Tim to leave Damian alone. Timothy is sitting at the coffee table with his laptop, looking for the most part like Bruce does when he’s working on numbers, his face a mask of focus, amidst snarly insults aimed at Damian.

                It’s business as usual. As it was before.

                But it’s not.

                The nuances of how our world has shifted over the last year are so small, they could be missed entirely. But they are present, nonetheless. Bruce doesn’t talk as much. Not that he was much of a conversationalist outside of work as it was, but now he watches everyone and everything with an added layer of thought. With something _more_ in his gaze, that I think only a person who’s come back from a great trauma can understand.

                Like he’s savoring every little detail, soaking it up like a sponge.

                There is a part of me, that will never stop hurting for what was done to him. That part of me cannot forget the months of nightmares, the screams that hurt my chest so badly I’d ache even when I was away from him. I won’t be able to forget the box buried beneath the sycamore tree any more than Bruce will.

                He buried the last shred of that past today.

                I’ve never felt a more interesting mishmash of emotions. Sorrow. Pride. Relief. Joy.

                I don’t know which was most prominent, except, that when we returned to the manor tonight, Bruce _looked_ like he’d lost thirty pounds of weight from around his neck. He’d looked lighter, happier, freer.

                And I can’t describe how much that means to me. How much it soothes my own fears and aches where he is concerned. It’s been such a long battle, so much pain, that to have made it here—in this living room, with these squabbling young men and Bruce looking calm and happy—it’s the world. It’s my world.

                “Bruce, tell us—settle this for us—who is the best Jedi, Obi Wan or Mace Windu?”

                “Neither.”

                “What?” Damian snaps, turning away from the TV screen to glare balefully at his father. A father who loves him more than life itself. Who has forgiven and moved on with admirable grace. With the sort of kindness, I admit I never expected from Bruce. I never imagined he could look past what Damian did so easily. That they could be arguing amiably about Jedi a year in the future. But here we are.

                “Clearly,” Tim lifts a brow, “Obi Wan is better.”

                “Clearly, Mace Windu is.”

                “Yoda is pretty great,” I say conversationally and both boys glance at me then completely ignore me.

                Lois shifts at my side and grins with her eyes closed, “Are they really arguing about who is the better Jedi?”

                “Yes,” I press a kiss to Lois’ forehead, then dip to find her mouth. She kisses me back languidly and it makes my stomach clutch a little. If we were home…

                “Qui-Gon Jinn is clearly the best,” Bruce finally manages, sounding amused.

                “You’re just saying that because it’s neither of our picks.”

                Damian glares, “Yes, Father, tell us what you really think.”

                “I already did,” Bruce grins, shaking his head as Diana starts laughing into his shoulder.

                “You two are the biggest fucking nerds I have ever seen. Oh my god, it’s like stepping into another dimension,” Jason grouches, rolling so his back is to the room and Dick has toes by his ear.

                From the hallway, where no one else can really hear over the noise, I hear Alfred’s voice chime disapprovingly, “Language.”

                It makes me smile. It makes me curl tighter into Lois and then pass a commiserating look to Bruce who smiles back at me.

                We share a long look. One that doesn’t need words over the din and the sound of lightsabers buzzing. And I look away before Bruce can see that my eyes are filling with tears because even if they are happy tears, I don’t want to ruin this moment. I don’t want to stain it with anything but joy.

                When Jon starts a whole new argument a few minutes later, by bringing up that Darth Vader is technically a Jedi too, albeit evil, and likely the best Jedi to have ever lived, I sit back and laugh, tears long gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I'm not writing fanfic, I write romance novels! If you like that sort of thing, check out my website at fillsaltz.wixsite.com/author OR look up my novel Dayton's Island, available in paperback and digital formatting via Amazon.com for a fast-paced, suspense-filled, read. Thank you!  
> -Felicia Saltzman


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